


Write Me In C Major

by thehobbem



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: (I didn't think it'd be so slow at first sorry), Anxiety, Composer!Yuuri, Dancing, Happy Ending, M/M, Music, Mutual Pining, Romance, Slow Burn, Victor skates, Victuri, Yuuri makes music, musician au, they make history together, what's victuri without some mutual pining?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2018-09-22 02:26:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 87,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9578384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehobbem/pseuds/thehobbem
Summary: Living Legend of figure skating Victor Nikiforov has just won his fifth world title and doesn’t know where to go from here - until he falls in love with Katsuki Yuuri’s music at first hearing.Movie composer Katsuki Yuuri is trying to bounce back from a series of flops when his idol shows up with absurd requests.Victor wants Yuuri to compose about him; Yuuri wants Victor to skate about him.





	1. Once upon a December

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Français available: [Write Me In C Major [Compose-Moi en Do Majeur]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11722560) by [Naelia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naelia/pseuds/Naelia)
  * Translation into Español available: [Escríbeme en Do Mayor](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12867423) by [L_Dartz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/L_Dartz/pseuds/L_Dartz)



> My very first ever multi-chapter fic, so please be gentle! Specially considering I know precious little about ice-skating, and absolutely nothing about music or coreographing, all of which are omnipresent in the story, because I am that smart in my writing choices. 
> 
> Thanks to my awesome beta reader [PenelopeUlyssea](http://penelopedulysses.tumblr.com/), who's also responsible for half this title and many ideas! What of me without you? ^^

Chris whistled, impressed. “A new personal best, good for Mila! Think she’ll make the podium again?”

“With that score she has to” Victor answered. “What, you think she won’t?”

“I don’t know, there's always Elena. And that Crispino girl could also give her a run for her money.”

“Hmm, true. She just might be the best jumper among them.”

The two skaters watched as Sara slid gracefully across the ice with a big confident smile on her face, her arms raised as if asking for more applause, which she immediately got from the audience. The whole place hushed into complete silence as she took her position; as soon as the first piano notes began to fill the air, her entire body seemed to ripple. Victor sat up a little straighter, his attention transfixed. They could talk about jumps and quads all day, but it was always the little things that caught his attention – the way someone stretched their arm or turned their heads, a clap, a snap, a smile. Sara was in perfect time with the music and every little nuance of the piece was accompanied by a little twist of a leg or a flutter of her hands. Those things could not single-handedly place a skater on a podium, but they did draw you further into their performance. And what was the whole point in performing if not that?

_She moves like a sea nymph._

A sea nymph. Where had that come from? Belatedly, he realized the music had suggested it: it had a… watery quality to it. The first notes had been like the gentle trickle of a fountain, but the piano had grown to a crescendo and it was like a waterfall now, note after note falling in cascades and washing over him. It evoked waves crashing against the rocks, only to fall back into a gurgling stream.

And while Sara charmed the world with her mermaid-like movement, Victor visualized a pair of hands flying over the piano keys - one hand clearly not aware of the other, each doing its own thing and creating a different effect, but both working together to cause a fascinating flood.

Victor caught himself wishing he could’ve skated to that piece.

Where was that piece from? He’d never heard it before. Had Sara commissioned it?

The music dripped into a stop, waking Victor from his trance. He hastily clapped along with everyone else, realizing he hadn’t paid attention to her routine beyond the first minute. It must’ve been very good if the audience’s reaction was anything to go by. It usually was.

The skating season had barely begun, but the wheels in his head were turning towards the next one already. Music that flowed with life. That was exactly what he needed.

 

* * *

 

“Phichit, put down that phone.”

“And how do you expect me to post videos of the final if I put down my phone? Honestly, Yuuri, you shock me. _Shock_ me.”

Yuuri rolled his eyes, trying (and failing) not to smile.

“Have you ever considered… not posting videos of the final? You could just watch the performances, you know.”

“Well, now you’re just being ridiculous.”

Yuuri would’ve taken his argument a step further, pointing out that Phichit would benefit more from actually watching the seasoned skaters rather than filming them – but the whole venue burst into roaring applause and his attention instantly shifted to the ice. His hand grabbed Phichit’s arm with unsuspected strength, making him wince, but Yuuri paid no attention.

“It’s him,” he whispered reverently.

Victor Nikiforov had just skated onto the ice, smiling and waving at the audience.

Yuuri’s eyes were glued to the skater’s every move. The routine hadn’t even begun yet, and he was already bewitched. When he stopped in the middle of the rink, Yuuri could sense the whole world waiting with bated breath, begging Victor to once again captivate them all. Yuuri knew the aria and the routine by heart at that point: he’d gone to Osaka just to watch Victor at the NHK Trophy, not to mention he was probably responsible for half of the million views his performance at the Rostelecom Cup had on Youtube.

Which was why, as soon as the first verse of _Stammi Vicino_ echoed through the arena, he could tell there was something different this time: Victor’s face and movements were just as languidly melancholy as before, but as he flowed across the ice Yuuri thought his moves seemed to have a more… fluid quality to them. Like water.

Yuuri beamed with pride, as if he were somehow responsible for this. Only the Living Legend could still make a routine that everyone had already watched countless times feel like something new.

 

* * *

 

“Victor!”

He stopped in his tracks, tired and slightly wary: he’d finally gotten rid of the reporters and all the federation representatives, if he could only reach the locker rooms in peace… He turned nonetheless, practiced smile already on his lips. To his immense relief, all he saw was Sara Crispino smiling at him, bronze medal around her neck.

“Mila said you were looking for me? And hey, congratulations on the gold!”

Even though they’d had very little contact up until now, she hugged him as if they were close friends. He smiled, this time feeling it a bit more.

“Thank you, Sara! Congratulations on your medal too! Listen, I wanted to ask you something: I loved the music of your free skate. I mean, I loved the routine as well,” he lied, hoping the guilt wasn't too obvious on his face, “but it’s just that I was wondering where that piece was from.”

“ _The Nereid’s Call?_  I had it composed for me! I was tired of skating to old ballet pieces, you know.”

Victor nodded, sympathetic. Weren’t they all?

“It was gorgeous! Who came up with the idea of an aquatic theme, you?”

“No, my coach and I were thinking of having something that felt both fresh and classical for my theme this year. So we told him that and he… like, he sat down and watched _all_ of my old routines, back to my junior days, to see what my skating was like. And then he composed _The Nereid_ , and said that was what my skating made him think of,” she concluded. “So the aquatic thing was all his idea, really.”

“Impressive! So who is ‘he’?”

“Oh, sorry! Yuuri Katsuki! You know him, right?”

The name did ring a bell, and he nodded slowly. He’d heard the name being mentioned by other skaters over the past few years. Cao Bin had mentioned him once, if he was not mistaken, and so had Sara’s brother? Jaime Estévez, too, right before retiring. But he’d never paid much attention: Yakov only worked with German and Italian composers and Victor had done the same for the last three or four years.

“I know of him, yes. But I don’t think I’ve ever met him. Do you have his contact?”

“He’s here! And he’s adorable, he even came to wish me and Mickey good luck! He composed Mickey’s short program music last year, so Mickey kinda likes him… Let me see…” she looked around, searching for the composer in the crowd. As she grabbed Victor’s hand to drag him along, he started to nervously look over his shoulder, expecting Michelle Crispino to angrily pop out of the ground at any moment.

“Look, there! With Celestino and Elena!”

Celestino Cialdini was always a good reference point, standing one head above most everyone else. He and his skater Elena Deschamps, who'd just taken the gold again, were talking to two young men: a tiny enthusiastic one (a skater, right? He’d definitely seen him before) who was doing most of the talking, and a fashionably dressed one who quietly listened to the others and nodded sometimes.

“Wait here!”

Victor did as she asked, standing close enough to be able to see their faces, but not enough to understand what they said, the noise in the arena still chaotic and everywhere. He saw the quiet man turn to Sara, his face lit up in a warm smile.

Oh.

The expression “cute as a button” flashed in his mind, and for the first time he really understood what it meant.

But he also watched as the smile faded a little and his cheeks turned pink, and when he glanced at Victor, a look of sheer horror crept into his eyes. He shook his head and started backing off slowly, like a little frightened animal, and after a couple more words he practically fled to the exit.

Sara came back, a little crestfallen.

“He said he was in a hurry… places to go and all. But we’ll probably see him tomorrow!”

Victor nodded and gave her his Victor Nikiforov Smile™, distractedly.

Funny, he hadn’t seemed to be in a hurry before seeing Victor.

 

* * *

 

_The last group has just entered the arena. All eyes are on Victor Nikiforov, who’s going for his fifth consecutive World Championship gold. He will be skating last._

Yuuri watched Victor on TV, practicing the moves of his free skate in a hallway. A few months ago he would’ve liked nothing more than to sit next to Minako, watch Victor get the gold again and celebrate. But seeing Victor now just reminded him what an idiot he was. He walked away.

“Hey, Yuuri! Aren’t you gonna watch it with me?” a tipsy Minako asked.

“Sorry, sensei, I got work to do,” and he disappeared before she could argue.

His tiny studio in the back was the only safe place these days. His parents, Mari, Minako, they all felt like they could barge into his bedroom or when he was at the hot springs at any given time, but not the studio. “He’s working,” they’d say in hushed tones, and he’d be left alone. Yuuri had composed precious little since he’d come back home, though. Most of his time in the studio was spent just sitting on his old couch, rewatching his last performance or rereading the crushing reviews.

“A flop in every sense of the word”, “amateurish”, “depressing” and “a wretched affair” were some of the bits that had been floating around in his brain for half a year now. Some of the critics had been gracious enough to add “not like his usual self” and remember his past (more successful) performances, but most of them had been merciless.

As if the knot in his stomach and the sting in his eyes hadn’t been enough torture as he’d sat on the piano bench that night. He’d been wearing his lenses as usual, but the keys right under his nose had still been a blur, and he’d felt rather than seen his hands shaking. The usual silence that preceded the beginning of a performance had seemed to stretch on into eternity, unnaturally, unbearably long. A few murmurs from the crowd. They waited for him and no one else. He’d been this close to throwing up all over the Steinway grand piano.

The first note hit had already been the wrong one, and it hadn’t gotten better as the recital went on. He’d either played too loud, attacking the keys as if they’d personally killed Vicchan, or tried to compensate for it, touching them so lightly they couldn’t even make the sound intended. With every note screwed up he’d imagined what the critics would say the next morning, what his old teachers would think, and the comforting, supportive smile his parents would give him, which would only make it worse. They’d say it was okay but it was _not_. And the more those images swirled around his head, the more notes he missed, in a vicious, cruel cycle.

In the end, he’d still had to stand up and thank the lukewarm applause, which had been one of the most mortifying parts of it all: had it been up to him, he would’ve closed the piano and run away from the stage without looking back. But that was not how it was done. The audience had politely played its part, offering him applause he had not earned, and in his turn he’d stood up and bowed once, before he’d felt they’d both had enough of that charade. He’d walked away as quickly as his last bit of dignity allowed him, hoping his face was not burning as badly as he felt.

And now there was that invitation, sitting on the side table and gathering dust. He’d gotten it almost a month before, but still didn’t have the courage to answer.

He didn’t even know what to answer.

Did he actually want to play in front of an audience again? It had never felt comfortable, Yuuri hated being the center of attention; ironic, considering he’d spent the first half of his life dancing, and the second half making music. Both had led him to performing in public, to people who were watching, people who had even paid for it. However, the emotions that shook him to his very core were only his. He couldn’t just bare them, so when he danced, when he played, the outside world ceased to exist. He did it for himself, and that was what usually allowed him to perform well.

Until that recital, that is.

Yuuri leaned his head against the piano, closing his eyes: did he truly want to risk going through something like that again?

The answer had to be a resounding “no”, right? So why hadn’t he answered the invitation yet? Such an easy thing to do.

And an invitation by Minami Kenjirou, too, of all people.

“ _It’s nothing personal, Katsuki-san, it’s just that Minami-kun’s score suits the movie better. It’s more… alive._ ”

The director had praised his score in the end, but Yuuri didn’t need empty praise. His music had simply not been good enough, why not just say that? He’d also suggested Yuuri take a vacation, hadn’t he been working non-stop for a few years?

 _Sure, let’s pretend this has nothing to do with the critics saying my last score was ‘bland’ and ‘generic’_ , he’d thought at the time, but kept quiet. Yuuri was much too proud to say anything, so he’d just mumbled something about being tired and needing time off.

And none of that was Minami’s fault, really. But between the critics, Vicchan and all the awards he'd failed to win, he did not have the energy to deal with Minami. Or with the fact that, against all odds, Victor Nikiforov had wanted to meet him.

Him. Plain, old, mediocre Yuuri.

“ _He loved_ The Nereid’s Call _and wants to talk to you!_ ”

A decade-old dream coming true in the cruelest possible way. How could he face Victor Nikiforov, a man who’d broken all the records and made history with the same ease a bored barista made coffee? He stood on top of the world while Yuuri dug his way beyond rock bottom. He'd just make a fool of himself in front of Victor, it was best to just turn away.

A dull pain in his head made him realize he’d been pressing his forehead against the piano way too hard for way too long, so he sat up and straightened his shoulders. What did he want to do now?

Compose? What? He had nothing. The score the studio had asked for was done (and discarded, but he pushed that thought aside for the moment), as well as the music for Elena Deschamps’ free skate – that had taken quite the while, too. She had a Grand Prix title to defend again, and Celestino had been particularly demanding. Yuuri had reworked the piece three times. At least this year Phichit would go with _Shall We Skate?_ and _Terra Incognita_ , so he didn’t have to worry about him.

The question came back: what now?

He laid eyes on the single sheet music on top of the piano and felt his face burn. Maybe he could work on that?

The kanji he’d scribbled there formed his own name, in what had to be the stupidest working title he’d ever given a piece. But, well, it was about himself, so. He could think of a better, official title when the piece was done.

If it were ever done.

Because no matter how many times he played it, how much he tinkered with the chord progression or modulated it to a new key, it was still not good. It should be so simple, and yet no piece had ever given him as much pain as this one. But he’d started it, might as well see it to the end.

 

* * *

 

Maccachin jumped on the couch, tail wagging happily and tongue sticking out, looking at Victor as if inviting him to sit next to her.

“I know, I missed home too”, Victor answered her unspoken comment.

Victor put down his bags in a corner of the living room; he’d left the airport and gone straight to the dog hotel to pick her up. Exhausted as he was from the flight, there was no way he’d leave her there for one more night.

She barked and he scratched her behind the ears.

“Sorry, girl, I need a shower first, okay? And then I’ll keep you company.”

He turned on the TV so she’d have the background noise she loved and went for a desperately needed shower. When he came back, still drying his hair with a towel, Maccachin was quietly chewing her favorite plushie while sprawling on the couch.

“Any room for me there?”

At his motion of sitting she reluctantly made room for him - just a little. In no time, Victor was lying on the couch with Maccachin half under his legs and half on top of him. He wondered if she had any idea of how large she was and smiled at her.

“Forgot to tell you: I got the gold again. Proud?”

She licked his hand and wrist for some long seconds, and he took that as a “yes”. He got his phone out and scrolled through his social media, his mind miles away from the pictures and statuses he was supposed to be liking. With the season finally over, he had the next week off (wasn’t Yakov generous), and after that he’d be back at the rink, training for the next season.

Assuming that was what he wanted to do.

But he was just so, so tired.

The problem was not the skating itself, just… the exertion of shedding skin year after year. Every season a new Victor Nikiforov, every season baring his emotions for the world to see - emotions that he, quite frankly, hardly remembered. Every routine a story of wonder, or pain, lust, bliss, death, and the effort of scraping the barrel of himself to tell stories he barely knew left him emptier by the second.

So what now?

He’d vaguely toyed with the idea of retiring, but had never dared to speak of it, not even to Maccachin. It was not something to be taken lightly. Besides, if he ever as much as breathed the word “retire” Yuri would kill him, Yakov would have a heart attack and Victor would get shouted at for days. Even Lilia might come knocking on his door and demand an explanation. The mere idea of it all was stressful enough to make him not want to retire till he was 87.

But he could _,_ if he wanted to.

… Did he?

He still had a few good years of competitive skating in him, and he still loved the feeling of gliding on the ice, still prided himself in landing perfect quads and dazzling audiences. He didn’t mind baring his soul for them to see, it was just that he was running out of emotions. Running on fumes of emotions he hadn't had in years.

Focusing on his phone for one second, his train of thought was broken: he’d mechanically liked one of Sara Crispino’s pictures on Instagram and he pursed his lips. Thank God the season was over and he didn’t have to see Michelle for a half year, or he’d never hear the end of it.

He smiled nonetheless: the picture showed the two siblings in front of a cathedral in Florence, and they seemed to be having fun. Sara was as graceful as always, of course. Her free skate was still vivid in his mind, she’d make it to the top of the podium someday. That had been some good skating.

Some great music.

 _The Nereid’s Call_. That piece had enraptured him at the Grand Prix, and again at the European and World Championships. He opened Youtube and looked for it, but the only results “the nereid’s call” yielded were of Sara’s routine, none of the piece itself. He hesitated, but eventually typed “yuri katsuki” in front of it. Again, the piece was nowhere to be found. Maybe he hadn’t released it yet? But there were many results for Yuri Katsuki, which made sense. Although Victor wasn’t an expert in music, he had the distinct impression _The Nereid_ was a technically difficult piece, so Yuri was probably good at what he did.

Well, he’d never called, so that was that. He was just not interested in Victor – rather, in making music for Victor. It wasn’t that big of a deal though, right? He could ask _signore_ Scandello to compose for him again, the result was sure to be gorgeous. _Stammi Vicino_ was proof of that.

He glanced at the search results again, and one in particular called his attention.

 

**Yuuri Katsuki New York 2015 performance flop**

 

Victor frowned and clicked on the video. It started with Yuri in a tuxedo and with his hair slicked back ( _looking extremely handsome,_ he might add), walking onto the stage under considerable applause, though he hardly acknowledged the audience. He collapsed rather than sat on the bench, and stood very still for a few seconds, as if he’d been turned into stone; he didn’t even seem to be breathing. A whole minute went by in deafening silence, and the only move he’d made was to weakly rub his knees. At last he seemed to snap back into reality and hastily started to play – and the very first notes sounded wrong. More than wrong: painful. Victor’s frown deepened as the piece went on, and by the time the video ended with Yuri hurrying off the stage under polite applause, he was this close to having a headache.

That couldn’t possibly be Yuri.

_If I win this dance-off you’ll skate for me, right?_

Not Banquet Yuri.

Though it was awfully close to the Yuri who’d run away from him after the GPF.

The stark difference between the two versions of Yuri Katsuki he’d met had kept Victor baffled for weeks, and now this. Was this the same person who’d composed  _The Nereid?_ Or was Victor idealizing the piece (and its composer)? Was it really that good?

He went back to the previous search and clicked on the first video of Sara’s free skate, closing his eyes and tuning out the commentators to focus solely on the music. One minute in, though, and he knew he’d been right: that piano solo was every bit as inspiring as he’d felt back in December, the waterfall of sounds every bit as entrancing.

He could associate Banquet Yuri to _The Nereid’s Call_ (even though breakdancing and pole dancing could hardly be said to walk hand in hand with piano solos), because they were both so...  alive. More alive than Victor had felt in years. But Recital Yuri sounded more wounded than anything.

A quick Google search later and he was skimming through an article:

 

**Yuuri Katsuki Review – A Wretched Affair**

_The Japanese pianist and composer Yuuri Katsuki made his first (and hopefully last) appearance at the Snow Hall Festival. What had been anticipated as an interesting debut at the traditional New York festival turned out to be one of the most deeply unmusical experiences the audience present that night will ever have._

 

Uncomfortable, he skimmed through the rest:

 

_Awkward… depressing… piano was savagely attacked… truly gruesome… clangorous… falling apart on stage…_

 

Victor stopped; the review was ruthless. But right at the end, the word “nomination” made Victor sit up a bit straighter (and startle awake a fast asleep Maccachin).

Google. Wikipedia.

He stared.

 

**1 Early Life**

**2 Career**

**3 Works**

           **3.1 Television**

**3.2 Theatrical releases**

**3.3 Other works**

**4 Awards**

**5 Personal Life**

**6 References**

**7 External Links**

 

He didn’t bother with “Early Life” and “Personal Life”, only 2 lines long each; instead, he went straight to “Career”, “Works” (quite long) and “Awards”, spending more than half an hour clicking on link after link and trying to get a better picture.

Back to Youtube. “yuri katsuki”. He hesitated, then changed it to "yuuri katsuki". There weren’t many videos of him performing live, but there were many other things to watch and listen to:

 

**Top 10 Katsuki Yuuri Scores [10 videos]**

**The Flying Palace, composer Yuuri Katsuki [21 videos]**

**Katsuki Yuuri and Ogino Takeshi at the recording session of Amaterasu’s Cave**

**A Night of Winters – Katsuki Yuuri (The Flying Palace)**

**Spice and Candy OP 1 “If You Find” (Katsuki Y.)**

**EPILOGUE – THE FLYING PALACE (YURI KATSUKI)**

**Katsuki Yuuri plays Stammi Vicino**

**Your Serenade Without Me (Y. Katsuki)**

**Katsuki Yuuri’s Nighttime and Daybird Score [19 videos]**

 

Wait. No, hold on.

Victor blinked.

**Katsuki Yuuri plays Stammi Vicino**

He clicked.

Yuuri at the piano in what was most likely his own house; he seemed to be in some sort of living room, with a long, messy bookcase to his left and a black & white poster of… someone Japanese above the piano.

Victor had already seen Yuuri wearing nothing but boxers and a (god-awful) tie, but even though he was fully clothed here, this was somehow even more intimate, almost invasive. Like waltzing into someone’s bedroom without their permission. He had his hair down, dark sweatpants, a worn-out white t-shirt and no glasses.

This was Domestic Yuuri.

The video began after Yuuri had been playing for a few seconds, and Victor would recognize those notes anywhere, anytime. It was his [_Stammi_ _Vicino_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KHbbDjp73Zo) (well, technically _signore_ Scandello’s _Stammi Vicino_ ). He’d half hoped, half expected that, considering Yuuri was so involved with ice skating music. But what he had not expected was to hear Yuuri singing. He sang in a low voice, clearly only for himself, as if he could not help it. Victor noticed with a start that there was no music sheet in front of him. He had his eyes closed and played it by heart. Perfectly. The notes, the low-key singing, the execution, all flawless, but more than that: it brimmed with emotion, the exact emotion Victor had hoped to emulate in his free skate; infectious emotion that gave him goosebumps. Had the song always been this poignant?

The silence took over Victor’s apartment when the video ended, though the music still echoed loudly in him, along with all the Yuuris he’d ever had a glimpse of.

He looked through his contacts until he found the one he needed.

 

 **21:34 [Me]** Mila!

 **21:34 [Mila]** Hi! :D

 **21:35 [Me]** Listen, do you have Sara Crispino's contact?

 **21:35 [Mila]** Sure! (?)

 

He didn’t answer the implicit question and waited.

 

 **21:36 [Mila]** _**Sara Crispino** _

**21:36 [ **Me** ] **Thanks! <3

 

* * *

 

Yuuri woke up, but didn’t get out of bed right away; he didn’t have anything to do or anywhere to go, so he just stared (squinted) at the ceiling for a while.

At the notification sound, he grabbed his glasses and the phone: Phichit. He smiled a little and answered, but his friend wouldn’t see it right away, he was probably on his way to the rink, if not there already. Yuuri checked for other messages and e-mail.

He blinked.

Stared.

Rubbed the sleep from his eyes and stared again.

 

 **Victor Nikiforov**  >  **New music**

 

Incredulous, his eyes dangerously close to popping out of their sockets, he opened the email.

 

_Dear Yuuri:_

_I hope this finds you well! I was wondering whether we could talk about the possibility of you composing a piece for me to use this next skating season. We could talk over Skype whenever convenient for you._

_Sincerely,_

_Victor Nikiforov_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't quite fit this tidbit into the first chapter, but in this AU, while Victor's FS is Stammi Vicino, his SP is [this piano version of "Once Upon a December"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tQtOwIFwQFM). This might come up in later chapters or... not.
> 
> My inspiration for "The Nereid's Call" is Ravel's "Ondine", so what Victor is reacting to is something very similar to [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rj8cBmWZhP0).


	2. Audio vocem tuam [I hear your voice]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for having read the first chapter and shown your support! It meant a lot and gave me extra encouragement for this second one! *thumbs up*
> 
> Special thanks to [fishenod](http://fishenod.tumblr.com/) for betaing this one for me! ^^

Yuuri rummaged through his closet in desperation: there was absolutely nothing to wear. _Nothing_ . He’d left his best clothes in Detroit – why? Why hadn’t he _foreseen_ this?!

[ _Because the chances of Victor Nikiforov contacting you were slimmer than winning the lottery. Or getting hit by lightning. Twice._ ]

Yeah, well, he _had_ contacted him, though. Yuuri preened a little at the thought, before going back to the pits of despair: no use having a skype interview with Victor Nikiforov if He. Had. Nothing. To. Wear.

It’d be a professional call, so surely he should wear something with “professional” written all over it, right? But he _was_ at home, and Victor as well, most likely. It’d make no sense to dress up to stay home. So. Professional and casual.

[ _How does that even work?_ ]

[“I don’t know” he groaned internally.]

A button up shirt and a tie? No, no ties, he hated them anyway, why was he even considering it? Besides, no one wore ties at home. Nor button up shirts, for that matter. A t-shirt, then. But wouldn’t that be _too_ casual?

What would Victor wear?

It didn’t matter, Victor Nikiforov could wear a burlap sack and still look like a model. He made even his Russian team tracksuit look like high-fashion, _how_?!

Meanwhile, all Yuuri could do was slick his hair back, take off his glasses and hope he looked like less of a dork. He couldn’t even pull off a tuxedo, and _everyone_ looked good in a tuxedo.

Should he slick his hair back and take off his glasses, then? He’d certainly look better.

[ _You’ll also look like you’re trying too hard._ ]

Knots. So many knots in his stomach, oh god. Why was he fretting so much, he could wear anything - he could be _pantless_ for the interview if he wanted to, and Victor would be none the wiser.

Except that being pantless in front of _Victor Nikiforov_ was nothing short of nightmare fuel (he was pretty sure he’d actually _had_ that nightmare a couple of times before).

Yeah, pants seemed like the best choice.

[ _Was that even up for debate?_ ]

One look at his cell phone told him he had 10 minutes before the interview, which had not been easy to arrange in the first place. Given the 6-hour time difference between their time zones, a few emails had been exchanged before settling on an hour convenient enough for both of them: 5:00 pm for him, late morning for Victor. Yuuri had been afraid of making the skater wake up earlier than he was used to, but Victor had assured him that would not be the case.

9 minutes to go and still no shirt.

[ _You can’t even pick clothes on your own, can you?_ ]

He grabbed a plain blue t-shirt and put it on.

Bland.

[ _Just like you._ ]

At three to 5:00 pm he was sitting on the couch in his studio, laptop perched on his lap. Internet connection? Check. Logged in on Skype? Check. Sound working? Check. Decent camera angle so Victor wouldn’t be looking at Yuuri’s crotch instead of his face? Check.

Wait. _Had he brushed his teeth?_

Skype call sound.

**Victor Nikiforov calling**

Oh god.

_Oh god._

His hand hovered over the touchpad for a couple of seconds, his heart in his mouth. He hadn’t spoken English in over a month, did he even remember it anymore???

He accepted the call and the image of the skater filled the screen.

Yuuri froze, as if he somehow hadn’t expected to be looking at Victor Nikiforov.

Victor blinked, and then his face lit up.

“Yuuri! Long time no see!”

“Ah… yes? I mean, yes, hi. Um, nice to meet you. Mr. Nikiforov.”

Victor seemed surprised for a couple of seconds, but his smile came back with a short laugh.

“It’s true, we were never formally introduced, were we? And please, just Victor will be fine.”

(Yuuri’s nerves made it easy for him to resist the urge to start calling him “Just Victor”.)

“Um, ok, sure. Victor.” The skater winked at him, and Yuuri lowered his gaze towards the keyboard for a while. “So, um… congratulations on your win at Worlds. The… the routines were beautiful.”

“Thank you, Yuuri.”

Yuuri knew that any hope his ears weren’t pink would be in vain; it was just that hearing _Victor Nikiforov_ saying his name with such familiarity and ease was… well, flustering.

He couldn’t keep staring at his own keyboard, though, so he steeled himself and looked up at the screen again. Victor was wearing a simple white and blue striped shirt, which made Yuuri feel better about his own choice of clothes.

_See? Casual. This is fine. I’m doing fine._

[ _Are you, though?_ ]

He cleared his throat awkwardly, unwilling to let Victor shoulder all the burden of the conversation, as tempting as it was.

“So, you… you wanted to talk about music for the next season?” He asked, looking first at the screen, and realizing only later that he should’ve been looking at the webcam for any semblance of eye contact.

Not that he was good at eye contact anyway.

Victor smiled again, which Yuuri almost missed because now he was looking at the camera.

“Yes! I love what you composed for Sara Crispino. _The Nereid’s Call_ is quite...” Victor paused for a couple of seconds, as if trying to find the best word for it, “mesmerizing.”

Pink ears were nothing - Yuuri could feel his whole face turning bright red. Even if he hadn’t been able to tell he was blushing, the light amusement in Victor’s eyes would’ve probably given it away.

“Tell me Yuuri, how exactly did you end up composing music for figure skating? If you don’t mind my asking, of course.” Victor added, apologetically.

“N-no, not at all, I don’t mind! I… well, once I composed something that Phichit liked… um, Phichit Chulanont? He’s a Thai skater, I don’t know if you...” Yuuri let his voice trail off, unsure of how to explain Phichit, but he saw recognition dawning on Victor.

“Yes, I know who he is, sure. So you’re friends?” he asked, curious.

“Yeah and, um… he… he listened to my music a few years back and… liked it. So he… he showed it to Celestino… Celestino Cialdini.” Victor nodded. Well, of course he knew Celestino. “And… that’s how it started, I guess. I’ve also composed for his other skaters and a few others.”

“I see. Lucky them.” Victor remarked, running a hand through his hair, and Yuuri followed the motion with his eyes, hypnotized; horrified at what he was doing, he stared intently at a point past Victor’s shoulders. That man’s smile was just _too much_. He chose to focus on a row of tall windows, all of them nearly blinding him with the morning sun coming in. His whole apartment seemed to be so… _bright_.

Just like Victor’s smile.

It hit Yuuri that it was the second time Victor complimented his work and he hadn’t thanked him.

“Um, thank you,” he stuttered at the same time Victor started “And how exactly...”

They stopped, and Victor chuckled. “You first.”

“No, I was just… thanking you. You go.” Yuuri mumbled, staring at the windows again rather than at Victor himself or the webcam.

“I was just wondering how exactly you go about composing music for a short program or a free skate. Sara mentioned you composed _The Nereid_ based on her skating style?”

“Um, yeah, pretty much.” Yuuri adjusted his glasses a little and sat up a bit straighter. “It depends on what the skater and their coach have in mind. In Sara’s case, they didn’t have any theme, so I thought I should, like, watch her skate and see what suited her best. It’d be useless to compose, say, an _allegro_ for her if she couldn’t keep up with it, or an _adagio_ if she were used to skating to music with a faster tempo. So that was the first thing on my mind. And I wanted something that could help enhance her strengths as a skater as well.”

Victor blinked a little at him, but finally nodded. “I see.”

“With her brother Michelle, the year before, it was a little different: he wanted something on the theme of ‘forbidden fruit’, so I had to focus on that on top of what he could do on the ice. It’s really up to the skater - or their coach, depending on who calls the shots, and… yeah.”

He ended abruptly, realizing he’d rambled more than anything else; had he even made sense? Probably. Maybe.

“It makes perfect sense,” Victor replied, as if he could read Yuuri’s mind. “You tailor the music to both the theme and the skater.”

“Yeah, pretty much. I mean, I… I try to.”

“Well, I don’t remember Michelle’s music. I think I didn’t actually get to see his programs that year. But you certainly managed to tailor _The Nereid_ perfectly to what Sara needed.”

“Thanks.” Yuuri muttered, this time managing to look at the webcam while talking. “So, um… have you thought about a theme for this next season?”

“As a matter of fact I have! I… no, down girl, _down_!”

A brown blur showed up on screen for a few seconds, then disappeared only to reappear again with a bark.

Yuuri’s eyes went wide: was that…?

“Maccachin, no, dad’s having a conv-” a tongue darted out and unceremoniously licked Victor all over his mouth and nose before he could finish. He laughed and talked softly to the dog in Russian before he turned back to the computer.

“I’m sorry,” he said, wiping the slobber from his face. “She must’ve… ah, you… like dogs?”

Only then did Yuuri register the huge grin on his own face.

“Oh, I… yeah, I do! I have one. Um, _had_. One.” Victor’s eyes grew slightly larger and Yuuri hurried to add, “She’s adorable!”

Victor’s smile got impossibly brighter. “Well, let me introduce you, then!”

He tapped lightly on the arm of his chair and Maccachin stood up and put her paws there. Victor turned the computer a little so the camera would face the dog.

“Maccachin, this is Yuuri Katsuki. Yuuri, this is Maccachin, my best friend.”

Yuuri beamed at the dog. She looked so much like Vicchan it hurt (she was much bigger, though, something he’d never realized before); she was also unbelievably charismatic - more than he himself would ever be.

“Hi Maccachin! Very nice to meet you! You missed your dad, right? I’m sorry to be hogging him, I promise I’ll give him back in no time!”

Her owner talked to her again in Russian and Maccachin left, while Victor readjusted his computer.

“I’m really sorry,” he apologized, without looking the least bit sorry, “I thought of locking her in the bedroom so she wouldn’t interrupt, but...”

Yuuri protested. “No, you don’t have to. I mean, this is _her_ home, right?”

Victor seemed to consider him for a few seconds, and nodded slowly with a small smile.

“Yeah, it is. Thank you.”

Not knowing how to answer that, Yuuri let his eyes flit down to his own hands, before he remembered what they’d been talking about.

“Um, so… you were saying? About a theme?”

“Oh right! Yes, I already have a theme I’d like to work with this year! And that’s where you come in.” He leaned forward on his desk, and Yuuri couldn’t look away from those blue-green eyes. _God_ they were gorgeous, how were they real??

“I’d like you to compose a piece about love for my short program.”

“Love?” Yuuri was slightly taken aback. That was such a… _simple_ theme. Surely Victor had worked with it before?

(Though now that he thought about it, that didn’t seem to be the case - at least not that Yuuri remembered, and he’d been keeping track of all of Victor’s titles, programs and competitions for more than a decade.)

Victor’s eyes did not leave Yuuri’s face for a single second, with a hidden intensity that had not been there before.

“Love,” he confirmed. “Do you think you can do it?”

“Um, yes, sure. Is there… is there any other, um...”

The other man shook his head. “No, just that, really. Love.” He watched Yuuri intently for a moment longer before breaking eye contact and shrugging slightly. “Of course, since it’s for my short program it shouldn’t be too long...”

“Yes, 2 minutes and 50 seconds, tops,” Yuuri agreed mechanically. That was old information by now. “You’ll obviously want it for as soon as possible, but is there any deadline?”

Victor hummed. “How long does it usually take you?”

Yuuri pushed his glasses back one more time. “A couple of months - I gotta watch your past programs, see what would fit your style,” Yuuri lied. He couldn’t possibly admit he knew most of Victor’s routines by heart. “Then think of something, compose it...”

[ _Fight it, more like it._ ]

“...and then get it recorded. Depending on what instruments are necessary, I might have to get other people to play as well. I realize 2 months might be too long for you to wait, it’s just that...” Yuuri didn’t quite know how to put it delicately, but luckily Victor seemed to know where that sentence was going and grinned back at him.

“I know, we usually decide these things _before_ the end of a season. Under normal circumstances I would’ve contacted you before, but… well, I’ll make do with the time I have. I’m sure choreographing to your music won’t be a problem!”

Yuuri blushed and averted his eyes. He had something weighing on his mind and his nerves were kicking in again, unwelcome as always. But he _had_ to say it; he’d never forgive himself if his lifelong idol ended up saddled to subpar, generic music because of him. He glanced at Victor, then away again.

“Um, I… you… you should… well, I think...”

Victor tilted his head. “Yes?”

He licked his lips nervously. “Well, I… I’d like to advise you to… you see, there are no guarantees that… I mean...” He took a deep breath and blurted out, “you should have another piece up your sleeve. In case.... in case I can’t deliver it in time, or… or you don’t like what I’ve composed.”

There. He’d said it.

“Oh.” Victor shifted his gaze from the screen to the camera, as if he were trying to look Yuuri in the eyes. “Yes, of course. Don’t worry, I’ve got someone else on the job as well! _Signore_ Scandello is working on something for me. He composed _Stammi Vicino_ last year, so I know he can deliver. You’re my first choice though,” he concluded with a smile and a wink.

Yuuri felt his shoulders slowly relax, trying his best to ignore the blush rising on his neck. “Great. Good to know.”

“And as soon as you’re done, send me the piece and bill me.”

“Oh, you…. sure, but don’t you wanna know how m-”

Victor waved a had, dismissively, “Nah, that’s fine. Just send it.”

“Well, okay. Then, I… I’ll keep you posted?”

“Please! And if you have any questions, just ask!”

“Yes, um, you too.” Yuuri almost kicked himself, what questions would Victor have for him?!

After the call was over, Yuuri stared at his laptop, his mind a complete blank.

He’d just _talked_ with Victor Nikiforov. For 15 whole minutes! He’d seen Maccachin ( _“my best friend,”_ could that have been any more adorable?!) and Victor had smiled at him, _complimented_ his work, _thanked_ Yuuri!

He was going to compose Victor Nikiforov’s SP music.

 

* * *

 

 

Victor leaned back on his chair when the call was over. That had been… interesting, to say the very least. More things to piece together.

Interview Yuuri was desperately transparent and easy to fluster; Victor should’ve probably reined himself in, but making Yuuri blush was just _too_ tempting.

And worth it.

He was also awfully sharp when it came to his own craft? The minute he’d started talking about music and composing there’d been no stuttering, no uncertainty, but it’d ended as abruptly as it’d come about, too.

Yuuri Katsuki was like the music he composed: started soft and slow, rose to a sudden crescendo, and with the same suddenness, returned to a quiet lull.

A few other tidbits were worth noting as well: he was friends with that Thai skater - Victor had vaguely recognized him at the GP Final, but now he could put a name to that face. They’d both skated in a qualifier two years ago. Skate Canada, maybe? And that had been it, really, but he definitely knew who the boy was. He’d been the talkative one, whose smiles seemed as endless as his love for selfies. He chuckled lightly: was there a more unlikely friendship than he and Yuuri?

(The fact that Yuuri was a dog person was also playing on a loop in the back of his mind.)

Interview Yuuri, Banquet Yuuri, Recital Yuuri, Domestic Yuuri. But as different as each one was from the next, there was always one constant: he really was as cute as a button.

 

* * *

 

 

Two days later and Yuuri was face down on his bed, freaking out.

He shouldn’t have accepted it. But how could he have said no?! _To those eyes_?!

He should have, though. Because he had nothing to show, he was gonna be exposed as the fraud that he was and disappoint Victor Nikiforov. His hero would be the latest to join the ranks of those Yuuri had failed - namely, the studio and _the entire nation of Japan_. But apparently that hadn’t been enough for him, he just had to go international and disappoint Russia too.

[ _Go big or go home, right?_ ]

He turned on his back and closed his eyes: breathe in, breathe out. He spent a couple of minutes doing just that, until his heartbeat had quieted down some.

Okay, so worst case scenario, Victor would simply use whatever the other composer had made for him, right? He wouldn’t be left with nothing.

_“You’re my first choice, though.”_

That both sent a warm feeling through his body _and_ made his pulse race all over again. How could he, Katsuki Yuuri, who had zero experience, compose a piece about love? And for _the_ Victor Nikiforov, of all people, the most desirable bachelor ever, who obviously knew everything about love?

He’d composed music about love before, of course, but it was different - there was always a _story_ attached to it: love gone awry in _Nighttime and Daybird_ , love surviving death into eternity in _The Flying Palace_ , the regret of lost love in _The Lake by the Stars_ , childhood love in _Spice and Candy_ , and so many others. There were always characters with a story; all he had to do was dive in.

This was different, it was vague, it required him to… understand and compose for something utterly intangible that he’d never experienced before.

What _was_ love, anyway?

He stood up: he had to do _something_ , he couldn’t take the guilt of staying holed up in his bedroom anymore.

He went over to his desk and turned on the laptop: there was always the internet. He simply typed “love” in the search box, which resulted in tacky images of couples and sunsets, movie trailers, song lyrics, scientific articles, Wikipedia.

 

Love is a variety of different feelings, states, and attitudes that ranges from interpersonal affection(“I love my mother”) to pleasure (“I loved that meal”).

 

There, he knew those, right? He loved his mother, he loved his food, he could relate.

 

It can refer to an emotion of a strong attraction and personal attachment.

 

Maybe not. He kept on reading.

 

A virtue… variants… storge, philia, eros and agape… religious… Greek words for love… contrasted with hate… The Beatles… “to be delighted by the happiness of another”... “unconditional selflessness”...

 

Yuuri read the whole article and in the end was left with a lot of interesting trivia, but nothing he could use for inspiration; apparently, no one was sure what love was either. He started clicking on all links that held any sort of promise, and eventually ended up on “Greek words for love”.

 _Agápe, éros, philía,_ and _storgē_

He read on each one of the words and did more research on them, the wheels in his head beginning to turn at last. He didn’t even realize when Mari knocked on his door to announce lunch was ready.

An hour later, he finally felt like he had something to work with. Though abstract, the concepts were becoming slightly more palpable.

 _Philia_ made him think of Phichit, and he could totally work with that - but it was highly unlikely that _that_ was what Victor had meant by “love”. If it had been, he would’ve probably said “friendship” instead. As for _storge_ , Yuuri had read years before that Victor had no family, he’d been living by himself since he was 16, so... not exactly a good choice.

 _Eros_ was… a very close approximation to what must have been going through Victor’s head - what was it that Minako-sensei always said? That Victor was “too free with his charms”? Yeah, Victor was known as a flirt. He couldn’t even begin to imagine how many lovers the skater had already had. But to Yuuri, eros was as unfamiliar a concept as it could possibly get.

The same went for _agape_. He’d never been very religious, and on top of that, agape seemed to be intimately connected to Christianity. And this was something Yuuri knew almost as little about as eros.

Yuuri ran a hand on his face, sighing, not sure whether he was getting somewhere. He found himself staring at one of the dozen posters spread across every wall in his room.

All of them of Victor Nikiforov.

Victor had always been a huge part of the background of his life. When Victor had skated to the _Lilac Fairy_ in the Junior World Championship, Yuuri had decided that one day he would dance in a production of _The Sleeping Beauty_ (specifically, as the Lilac Fairy, regardless of how many times he was told he could only be Prince Désiré); he’d been more interested in Russian composers because of him, had learned to skate because of him. When he was feeling especially crappy, he rewatched Victor’s old routines to feel better.

And throughout the years he’d kept any poster or picture of Victor he could get his hands on (in this, he was usually aided by Minako-sensei and Yuuko, and he’d even gotten a particularly pretty one as a birthday gift from Nishigori once): Victor in his training rink, Victor in a photoshoot, Victor doing an Ina Bauer, Victor and Maccachin, Victor on and off the ice, Victors of all ages. Yuuri had slowly turned his bedroom into a sort of shrine to Victor.

A shrine.

A shrine to Victor?

That… could work. After all, if there was anything he came close to worshipping...

He’d have to do a lot of research though.

Yuuri threw himself into frantic search, and spent the next few hours listening to Gregorian chants, carols, hymns, Kyrie, Gloria, Credo, Sanctus, Agnus Dei, Mozart’s _Requiem Mass in D minor_ and others.

There was only one thing capable of getting him out of his bedroom: Mari, who came in and calmly but firmly forced him to go have (a very cold) lunch. He obeyed, firstly because he knew better than to disobey her when she decided to take care of him, and secondly because he noticed he was famished. His head, however, was far away, thinking of everything he’d have to do; he gobbled down a bowl of udon and rushed to his studio, which he only left again way past midnight.

His parents and Mari had just gone to bed, so he snuck back into the kitchen as silently as possible for more cold udon, his mind at a thousand miles per hour.

At least now he had _something_. But if he was to do it to the letter, he’d need lyrics. He had to talk to Ogino as soon as possible so he could start his own research while Yuuri worked on the melody. He’d also need other instrumentalists (an organ?), a soprano (and maybe a choir) and then book the recording studio.

And for the first time in three days, Yuuri smiled.

Maybe he just might be able to face Victor Nikiforov again.

 

* * *

 

 

The month of April was over before Victor knew it, and Yuuri Katsuki hadn’t contacted him at all.

That could be good or bad, he wasn’t sure what to think.

Not that he was ever sure what to think when it came to Yuuri Katsuki.

Yuuri had, in order:

  1. taken one look at Victor and run away;
  2. danced with Victor the following night and made him smile like no one else ever had (he’d also _ground_ against him but that part was better left ignored, or he’d fall right there and then in the middle of the rink, and Yakov would shout his ears off);
  3. never contacted him, despite having his number and email;
  4. talked to Victor a few months later on skype, as if he hadn’t ignored Victor’s request that he call him.



As if they hadn’t spent the better part of a night tangoing.

As if he hadn’t done what he’d felt like at the banquet and then left.

“Oy, Victor! Look where you’re going!”

“Oh sorry, Yura.”

Yuri skated away, mumbling aggressively, and Victor decided to take a break. Luckily, Yakov was more focused on refining Yuri’s quads for his senior debut than on Victor.

He sat down and grabbed some water, more so he’d have something to do with his hands than out of actual thirst.

On one hand there was Banquet Yuuri, who danced and played at a game Victor knew much less about than people generally assumed he did; on the other, Recital Yuuri had been clearly as lost as Victor. He had a prolific career, had been nominated for awards, but all of that had seemed to come crashing down on him during the previous year, culminating on that disastrous recital. The Yuuri who had played at the Snow Hall Festival was someone who, just like Victor, had no idea where he was going.

While Domestic Yuuri just seemed to know all the emotions Victor wanted to rediscover.

And it was in the hands of this puzzle of a man that Victor had left his SP. With no backups. Victor hadn’t wanted to lie, but Yuuri had just… been so _desperate_. He would’ve probably burst out of sheer pressure if Victor had told him he was the only one he’d asked for music.

If Yakov found out he’d hit the roof, and for once Victor would have to admit he was right.

He sighed and grabbed his phone; practice was almost over, no use going back to the rink. He scrolled through instagram, liking some of Chris’ and Emil’s pictures but _not_ Sara’s. Cao, Yura, Mila, Georgi... (huh, his girlfriend had left him, no wonder he wasn’t there today. The next few months would be annoying). On impulse, he typed “yuuri katsuki” and found his account. Nothing much there, though, just a handful of pictures of him and his friend Phichit (in Detroit, apparently). The pictures were both cute and funny and Victor smiled. Yuuri clearly allowed himself to be silly with his friend. Maybe that was Phichit’s Yuuri.

His phone vibrated in his hands: new mail.

**Katsuki Yuuri > SP Music**

Oh god. Had he _conjured_ Yuuri? He opened the email:

 

_Dear Victor:_

_Hope you’re well! I have finally finished the piece you commissioned for your short program, please find it attached below._

_Let me know what you think, I can make whatever adjustments you find necessary._

_Sincerely,_

_Katsuki Yuuri_

 

He looked at the email, but couldn’t find any attached file. His phone vibrated with a second email:

 

_I’m sorry, I forgot to attach the file. Here you go, sorry._

 

Victor snorted and took a look at the file: **On Love: Ag…**

He left the rink in more of a hurry than usual, prompting Yuri to yell something at him that he chose to ignore.

At home he downloaded the file in his computer.

 **On Love: Agape**.

He clicked on “play”, and was immediately caught off guard by the singing.

Beautiful singing. Gorgeous, actually. And that was… Latin?

A slow start that brought back all the memory of altars, pulpits, incense, all the hours he’d spent at church in his youth and an overall sense of reverence. A military kind of drumming, more singing and sounds that made him think of fairies, amazingly enough. The song began to grow to a crescendo, with a climax that evoked an inescapable sense of awe - of saints, miracles, eternity - then decreased in intensity, slowly fading into a final, sacral echo.

Fascinated, Victor played it one more time, closing his eyes while listening: he could see it. A raised hand slowly coming down, a spin, arms stretching towards the Heavens… hands together in prayer, a jump. A triple axel.

There was a routine there. A good one. A really, really good one, entirely different from what he’d done the previous season. The surprise factor.

And Yuuri had made that in a couple of weeks.

He sat down to answer Yuuri’s email when he remembered a very important detail: _Agape_ was fantastic, and any skater would be lucky to skate to it, but it was not what Victor had in mind for his theme this year.

In Yuuri’s defense, “love” had been a very vague instruction, it was just that Victor had been sure Yuuri would get his meaning.

Well, there was nothing left to do but tell Yuuri _exactly_ what he wanted.

He started typing.

 

* * *

 

 

Yuuri had been a pile of nerves when sending the email (he’d just _had_ to forget to attach the file, didn’t he?), so he went straight to bed after hitting “send”. The next morning he had an answer waiting for him:

**me, Victor Nikiforov > SP Music**

_Wow, amazing!!!_

That was all. Well, that was certainly… enthusiastic? He’d hoped for something a little more detailed, but if Victor liked it, far from him to complain. He’d think about billing him later - though with what _courage_ he’d bill Victor Nikiforov, Yuuri had no idea. In fact, he was this close to giving him the song for free.

~

Three days had passed since then. Victor hadn’t said anything else, and neither had Yuuri. He was still trying to come up with the right words to send him the bill, and perhaps also confirm whether Victor was truly satisfied with the piece.

The growl in his stomach told him to stop playing, and Yuuri was more than happy to oblige: he’d spent the whole day locked in his studio, but still couldn’t make any sense out of _Yuuri_ (stupid working title). How come _Agape_ , a much more complex piece, had been easier and faster to compose and arrange than this? He ran both hands in his hair, messing it all up: this was getting _beyond_ frustrating.

He turned off all the lights and equipment and opened the door. There were still flowers in bloom, but spring was definitely saying its final goodbyes, and the nights were getting progressively hotter. Soon he’d have to decide what he wanted to do and where he wanted to be. Phichit was waiting for him, after all.

A sound he hadn’t heard in quite a while reached his ears; astonished, he turned around to look - but not fast enough. A familiar fluffy blur invaded his field of vision in a flash and his back was on the ground the next second, glasses askew on his nose.

With a giant Vicchan on top of him.

“V-Vicchan?” was all he could stammer out before a tongue threatened to drown him in dog slobber. Yuuri laughed, making very half-hearted attempts to stop the dog from licking his face. That was not Vicchan, though, obviously.

But this couldn’t possibly be...

“Maccahin!” Yuuri heard her owner call, followed by a stream of words in what he assumed to be Russian.

Maccachin quickly got off of Yuuri and he sat up, trying to wipe a bit of the slobber away. He adjusted his glasses, only to find himself looking at a pair of legs.

He looked up, knowing full well who he was about to see, but refusing to believe it.

A smiling Victor.

“Hello Yuuri!”


	3. I met you in the dark, you lit me up

“Vkusno!”

In a trance, Yuuri gawked at Victor wolfing down a bowl of katsudon while his mom just watched with a blissful smile, as if handsome Russian celebrities eating her food were a daily occurrence. In a corner, Maccachin napped peacefully.

“Oh my, Vicchan sure seems to like it!”

Yuuri almost choked on his own spit.

“ _Vicchan_? Mom, you can’t call him that, you barely know him!”

“Don’t be silly, we spent the entire afternoon talking while you were shut up in the studio.”

“ _What_?!”

“Yes, he got here a little after lunch!”

“ _Why didn’t you tell me_?!” Yuuri had moved on to what was basically hissing.

“We told him we don’t usually disturb you when you’re working unless it’s an emergency, so he said he’d wait.”

Yuuri stared at her in disbelief. How on _Earth_ had his mom managed to convey that to Victor - rather, how had they talked an entire afternoon, when she spoke close to no English??

The answer came storming in a few seconds later with a bottle of sake in her hands and a reproachful look on her face.

“Yuuri! Finally! He was waiting for you!”

“Minako-sensei! Why didn’t _you_ tell me?!”

Minako shrugged.

“He said he didn’t mind waiting, so we took him to the onsen. He loved it, if you want to know.”

Yuuri was pretty sure he’d somehow got sucked into a Twilight Zone episode. One of the lesser ones. He slowly rubbed his temples in a futile attempt to calm himself down.

“Why did you take him to the onsen?”

“He asked! Said he was looking forward to it?”

He stared, dumbfounded. _Why had Victor been looking forward to the hot springs??_ That was… probably not the right question to be asking, but Yuuri would be damned if he knew what questions he _should_ asking.

“You’re being rude, by the way, he doesn’t speak Japanese.”

 _Oh god she was right_.

He turned around to find Victor eating the very last piece of pork in the bowl with a delighted grin on his face, utterly unfazed by the fact everyone around him was talking in a foreign language he didn’t understand.

Either that or he was politely faking being unfazed, a too real possibility that made Yuuri reach a whole new level of guilt.

“Oh, sorry Victor, we, um… I was just...”

Victor put down his chopsticks and wiped his mouth, adorably missing a grain of rice stuck to his right cheek. One half of Yuuri wanted to tell Victor, the other half wanted to reach out and wipe it away himself.

A dilemma that vanished into oblivion when Victor directed a heart-shaped smile at him.

“Don’t worry, Yuuri, you’re at home! Besides, your mom doesn’t speak English, right?”

“Yes, thank you,” Yuuri felt a bit more relieved. Still, there were many questions hanging in the air. “So Victor… you...”

“Hmm?”

“...like the food?”

Yuuri cursed internally.

[ _That is so not the right question_.]

Except that it totally was, because the way Victor’s eyes sparkled when talking about the meal was definitely worth it.

“Yes! This is delicious! What do you call it again?”

“Ah, katsudon! But you can just say ‘pork cutlet bowl’, I guess.”

“Nah, too long. Katsudon it is! Vkusno!”

Yuuri repressed a giggle. “I know, right? I wish I could eat it every day,” he added dreamily.

Mari walked in and sat next to Yuuri.

“His bags are in the bedroom already.”

“ _Bags_?”

“Yeah, where did you think he was gonna sleep, dummy? It’s almost 10:00pm.”

“But… but...”

Victor looked from one sibling to the other, not understanding their words, but the surprise on Yuuri’s face was more than enough to tear down any language barriers.

“Yuuri, he can’t understand us.”

_Right._

“Um, Victor, you’re… you’re staying?”

He beamed. “Yes! Since it’s a resort, I thought it’d be easier to stay here! I hope it’s okay?”

“No, of course it is, it’s… totally okay, no problem at all! I just...” He stopped, not knowing how to continue. Minako stepped in.

“Victor, you must be jet-lagged though, right? Yuuri will show you to your room!” Minako jabbed Yuuri in the ribs and he stood up in one motion.

“Right! Yes, um, let’s go?”

“Okay!”

He went upstairs overly conscious of Victor and Maccachin right behind him. What should he say? Should he make small talk? Ask him how the flight had been? Ask him if he wanted to be awaken in the morning? Inform him of the breakfast and onsen hours? His mind started going into resort-host-mode - he hadn’t officially helped his family with the resort in years, but some habits die hard.

They got to Victor’s bedroom before he’d come to a decision, and the whole walk had passed in silence.

“Um, here.”

“Wow! What a classic, tiny bedroom!”

“Sorry it’s so small, it’s the only one available...”

“No, it’s lovely, it’ll do just fine!” Victor went around the room touching everything and marveling at every insignificant detail, despite the fact that there wasn’t much to look at: a bed, a nightstand, a small table with a chair and a couple of paintings on the walls - a replica of a scroll of _The Tale of Genji_ and another of the Nachi Falls. Yuuri had always felt that having a painting of a waterfall so near one’s bed could have less than desirable results, but that was one of his father’s favorites and it was going nowhere.

Suddenly, he realized Victor had stopped moving around and was now standing on the very edge of his personal space.

“So Yuuri… are you working tomorrow as well?” Victor's voice went an octave too low for Yuuri’s peace of mind, and he had no choice but to focus on Victor’s right ear instead of his eyes.

“Maybe? I… I don’t have to?”

“Good. We’ll talk tomorrow then.”

That was clearly a dismissal, and yet Victor was still at much less than an arm’s length, holding Yuuri in place with his gaze.

[ _You still haven’t asked._ ]

Yuuri blinked stupidly. “Yes. Of course. Tomorrow. We’ll… talk tomorrow. Um. About?”

[ _There you go, that’s the question._ ]

The focus with which Victor had been studying him seemed to break, and his mouth turned into a heart again as he walked towards the bed.

“Oh, nothing you need to worry about. I came to talk about your music.”

“My… my music? You… don’t like it, then?”

Couldn’t he have said so on an email or over Skype? Taking a flight from St. Petersburg to Japan just to say that was a bit of an overkill.

“No, I love it! What, you didn’t get my email?” Victor seemed surprised.

“... The one that said ‘wow amazing’?”

“Yes! It is amazing, I absolutely love it. You’re a genius, Yuuri!”

Yuuri blushed and looked down, but the compliment did nothing to clear the fog. If anything, it made it worse. He’d come all the way here… to praise him? That seemed even more farfetched.

“But it’s not what I want,” Victor added cheerfully, “so we’ll have to talk about it tomorrow.”

“Ah. Obviously.” There was nothing obvious about any of it, but he couldn’t think of what else to say.

Victor murmured something in Russian to Maccachin, who was already completely sprawled on the bed, and pushed her a little to the side so he could lie there. Mission partially accomplished he looked back at Yuuri, still standing in the middle of the room as if physically unable to move.

“Unless… you want to sleep here?” The wink and the smile that went with the words were far beyond anything Yuuri could handle, and he found out right there and then that it was totally possible to both stutter and shriek at the same time:

“N-n-no, I’m, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I… I was just… I spaced out for a second, excuse me, good night, sleep well, see you tomorrow! Night!”

Yuuri literally ran back to his own room and almost had a heart attack when he got there: the posters.

Victor Nikiforov was there, in his house.

Had he seen this??

He spent a whole minute hyperventilating pressed against the door, as if Victor’s omnipresence on the walls was keeping him at bay. But eventually a few coherent thoughts managed to make their way out of the haze his head was drowning in: no matter how clueless his parents could be, Mari and Minako were perfectly aware that Yuuri would rather die than have Victor see his collection of posters. In fact, they all knew Yuuri’s bedroom was usually off-limits to anyone who wasn’t a Katsuki, a Nishigori, Minako (an honorary Katsuki at that point) or Phichit. He was probably safe.

However, nothing stopped Victor from wandering around and accidentally getting a glimpse of a poster through a semi-open door.

In less than two minutes all the posters had been taken down in a frenzy, leaving behind a trail of white rectangles and scotch tape on the walls, and neatly hidden under a pile of old music magazines in a drawer.

He threw himself on the bed, not bothering to take off his sweater. He’d put the posters back once Victor was gone, but for the time being he had the real thing right there.

Which was terrifying.

At least he liked _Agape_ , right? He’d said it was amazing, and called him a genius.

[ _Yeah, and he also said it’s not what he wanted._ ]

Yuuri doubted he’d be doing much sleeping that night.

 

~

 

He didn’t know exactly _when_ he’d managed to fall asleep, but when he woke up to a couple of knocks on his door, he felt as if he’d just closed his eyes. He looked at his cell phone: 6:54am.

More knocking.

“Yuuuuriiii! Good morning! I’m ready to go running!”

Yuuri jolted out of bed, adjusting his sweatpants with one hand and trying to flatten his bed hair with the other, glasses forgotten on his nightstand. He glanced at the walls one last time, to make sure there were no posters, and opened the door to find exactly what he’d suspected he would: a smiling Victor, looking perfectly fresh, rested and effortlessly elegant in a simple grey tracksuit. Yuuri felt like a disheveled potato in comparison, and was not surprised when Victor’s eyes went wide at the sight of him. He probably looked every bit as rumpled as he felt.

“Good morning… um, go running?” Yuuri asked, trying to stifle a yawn.

“Well, I was… going for my morning run when your mother told me you usually run too, so I thought you might… want to tag along?” For the first time since he’d gotten there, Victor seemed a little unsure of himself, and his eyes kept flitting away from Yuuri, as if he had to force himself to look him in the face. Following his eyes, Yuuri saw he’d taken off his sweater and shirt at some point during the night, so not only was he a sleepy mess, but also a bare-chested one.

[ _Concept: you NOT seizing every single opportunity to embarrass yourself. How wild would that be?_ ]

“Um… sorry, I… excuse me, I just...” he hoped Victor would understand what he meant, even though the only thing he did was gesture vaguely towards himself and let his voice trail off. Victor nodded, still not looking directly at him, so Yuuri left him at the door and fumbled around his bed for a while until he found the shirt he’d discarded in his sleep. It was a wrinkled mess, much like himself, but it’d have to do for now.

Fully clothed he turned to Victor, who’d already gone back to his usual composed self.

“I’m sorry, I woke you up, didn’t I?”

“No, that’s ok, I… I do run, actually. But I was busy this month and I didn’t do it, I just… went straight to the studio every day. Now I’m kinda… used to late hours and, like, no mornings.”

Victor raised his eyebrows. “Because you were working on _Agape_?”

“Y-yeah, I mean…”

Victor Nikiforov had been waiting for a piece, how could he not use _all_ his spare time, and even time he didn’t have, to work on it? Not that he could say that out loud.

“I guess I got excited with the piece,” Yuuri confessed with a sheepish smile. Victor smiled back.

“And so you should! It’s gorgeous!”

 _"But it’s not what I want_." Yuuri’s heart sank when he remembered Victor’s words; he’d forgotten about it for some minutes. It must’ve shown on his face, because Victor leaned against the threshold and looked at him more attentively.

“So I’d like to talk a bit more about it, if you’ve got the time. It doesn’t have to be _now_ , but - ”

Yuuri interrupted him: “No, now is… good. I gotta get back to my morning runs anyway. But um… I probably run much less than you? I… I have a bad knee, so...” His eyes locked on the floor, he hated talking about his knee, “I have to warm up slowly and can’t push it too far. So I’ll just be in your way, really.”

To his surprise, Victor beamed at him.

“I injured my leg a few years ago, so my warm-ups are slow too! How about we run at your pace, for however long you can, and you show me a bit of the town?”

Yuuri could feel relief washing over him. “Sounds great!”

 

~

 

They’d run for about half an hour before Yuuri’s right knee complained. In the past he would’ve just ignored it and kept pushing, in the hopes of beating his injury. But he eventually had to concede that that was not how things worked and learn to dial back. It was not like he could get his knee back to what it used to be anyway, so he might as well treat it right.

They had to stop for a while so Yuuri could rest, and Victor seemed more than happy to just sit next to him on a bench. They’d talked very little while running, Yuuri leading the way and Victor following with Maccachin close on his heels (she seemed used to running with Victor). The two men sat in silence while she sniffed around enthusiastically, and Yuuri couldn’t decide if it was an uncomfortable silence or not. _He_ was too anxious to be at ease, but every time he risked a glance, Victor was looking around and taking pictures, as excited as his dog.

Yuuri started doing a few flexing exercises to ease the discomfort in his knee - but the minute he did that Victor tugged at his sleeve, wide-eyed and pointing at something:

“Yuuri, what’s that??”

“Ah, that’s Hasetsu Castle. There’s a ninja house inside.”

“Really?! Ninja?!”

Victor immediately went into selfie mode, but it was hard to take a selfie with Maccachin _and_ still get all of the castle in the frame, so Yuuri ended up taking the picture for him. He watched as Victor posted it on instagram and typed in a thousand hashtags: it was such a Phichit thing to do that he couldn’t help but smile. He’d rolled his eyes and groaned every time Phichit decided they _needed_ to take a selfie - because this new café was so beautiful, or because those flowers were so _gorgeous_ , or because it was their day off, or because Yuuri _had_ to take a picture with him and Ciao Ciao at the rink. Everything was a reason for a selfie and 57 hashtags, and that had both annoyed and amused Yuuri, but now he just missed it.

 _“Yuuri, what do you_ mean _you don’t want to take a picture with this poster of Victor? Of course you do!”_

_“Phichit, no.”_

_“C’mon, we’re_ finally _at the Grand Prix Final together, we’re_ finally _gonna watch Victor Nikiforov break another record in_ person _! You_ have _to immortalize this occasion with a picture!”_

Phichit had won in the end, of course, he always did.

But that memory led him down a very specific train of thought that briskly brought him back to reality.

“So, Victor, you want to talk?”

Victor locked his phone and put it back in his pocket, being straight-forward so fast that Yuuri was taken aback.

“Yes. Yuuri, I came here because I really, _really_ like your music. _The Nereid’s Call_ is one of the most bewitching things I’ve ever listened to.” Yuuri blushed and looked away, and Victor went on as if he hadn’t noticed - which was very kind of him, because there was no way he hadn’t seen Yuuri’s face turning an inhuman shade of red. “I listened to your score of _The Flying Palace_ too, by the way. The movie is lovely, but your music made it better.”

Yuuri couldn’t imagine Victor Nikiforov watching a Japanese animated movie, no matter how Oscar-nominated it had been. “You… you watched _The Flying Palace_?”

“I did! I loved it. And your music was perfect. When  _A Night of Winters_ played in the end, I was a mess.” He gave a tiny, embarrassed laugh, peeking at Yuuri from behind a curtain of silver hair. “It made me cry a little?”

Yuuri knew now how he was gonna die: from forgetting to breathe.  _Victor Nikiforov had cried because of his music?_

That was a scientific impossibility. He wasn’t sure _what_ branch of science supported that conclusion, but there had to be one that did.

When Yuuri didn’t answer, Victor went on: “So I knew I wanted _you_ to compose something for my next season, if you could. And here we are.”

Yuuri tried to blink away the haze. No, no “and here we are”, end of story. That was only half of it, wasn’t it, where was the rest?

“Sooo… you want me to redo _Agape_?”

“God, no!” Victor seemed appalled at the idea. “Why would I, _Agape_ is wonderful!”

Yuuri was still more confused than anything else, and still very much in awe of Victor Nikiforov; nevertheless, he was also starting to get exasperated. Just a tad, really, but enough for him to narrow his eyes:

“You said it’s not what you wanted. So I assumed I’d have to rework it.”

“Nooo, no no. You don’t understand. _Agape_ is perfect the way it is. But I need something completely different. I need a new piece entirely.”

A new piece entirely.

Yuuri was beginning to suspect that Victor had come to Japan with the sole purpose of baffling him every other hour.

Although… that was more common than he was giving him credit for. It was not unusual for a client to request a new piece altogether because the one he’d composed wasn’t exactly what they wanted. It didn’t happen frequently, but it did happen. It was just that people were usually clearer about it, and no one had ever felt the need to take an international flight because of that.

Yuuri swallowed a sigh - Victor was his client, after all - and pushed his glasses back.

“Ok, a new piece it is. But for that I’ll need you to be more specific about the theme. You said you wanted a piece on ‘love’. What kind of love do you want to skate about?”

Victor hummed and leaned back on his hands, thinking. He seemed to be staring at the castle but his eyes were unfocused, head miles away.

Yuuri allowed him to do the thinking he needed and bent over to play with Maccachin; a few scratches and she was on her back, expecting belly rubs as if they were her birthright, and he was happy to oblige.

Victor woke up from his reverie and shifted on the bench, getting slightly closer to him.

“Well,” and his voice did that thing that had kind of ruined Yuuri’s sanity the night before, going lower than usual, “what I truly had in mind was sexual love.”

Yuuri choked on air. “W-what?”

“You know, desire,” Victor continued, voice still low, not quite looking at Yuuri but shifting even closer. His comment was met with nothing but silence, Yuuri still trying to wrap his head around Victor’s words and Victor’s distracting proximity.

He couldn’t even swallow, they were so close the skater would _hear_ it.

Victor finally looked straight into his eyes, a faint smile playing on his lips.

“I want a piece that speaks of passionate love. Of being consumed by desire. Of pleasure after pleasure, so much one could drown in it.”

Yuuri stood up in a flash. “Yes, I… I understand. In that case I… I better go back and… start researching.”

“Researching?”

“For… for the new piece! I… I’ve got a… a lot of reading to do!”

Victor tilted his head. “I thought you could maybe draw inspiration from your own experiences?”

Yuuri hid his hands behind his back so the other man wouldn’t see them wringing in agony. “I… what do you… _my_ experiences?”

“Yes, you could think of your lover, for example.”

Was that what a heart attack felt like? He shook his head weakly.

“I, I don’t, I don’t have. A lover.”

Victor smiled. “What about your friend, Minako? You guys seems so close!”

“Minako-sensei? No, she’s… she’s just a friend. Um, part of the family, really.”

Victor smiled more. “You can think of a former lover, then!”

Would Victor be able to call an ambulance if Yuuri had a heart attack? He didn’t speak any Japanese, Yuuri would just die in the middle of the street.

“I, um… no… no comments on that,” he mumbled, but Victor was clearly not to be deterred.

“Or I can tell you about mine, see if it gives you inspiration! My last lover was -”

“Victor, please! We, um, we should get back!”

Was he imagining things or did Victor seem disappointed? He gave him a smile and an “okay!”, but the smile felt like a wall that hadn't been there until now. It reminded him of the smile he had on Yuuri's posters- and now that Yuuri had been confronted with Victor in real life, that poster smile felt as thin as crêpe paper.

While they walked back Yuuri pointed at things and places and explained them to Victor, and the Russian man was full of questions about everything. He really was like a child at times and Yuuri had to smile.

Their walk home took much longer than initially planned, though, because Yuuri remembered to take him to the Ice Castle - and Yuuko almost died when _Victor Nikiforov_ walked in. Victor asked about the hours they were open and when he could come practice, but Yuuko assured him he could come at any time and skate for as long as he wanted for free. Yuuri had to stop her from shoving a spare key to the place in Victor’s hands.

Yuuri tried to apologize once they left, but Victor just waved his concerns away.

“I love talking to my fans, Yuuri. Thank you for giving me the opportunity!”

“Oh. Sure. Yeah, that… that made Yuuko’s day.” He smiled. “Her whole year, probably.”

Yuuri knew this to be a fact, because that was exactly how he felt. Except that, unlike Yuuko, he wasn’t quite at liberty to show it, since he was basically working for Victor. He had to keep it professional, no skater would like to work with a composer who couldn’t stop himself from shrieking every time they talked.

“What about Yuuko, then?”

Yuuri jumped, caught off-guard. “W-what about Yuuko?”

“Is she an ex-girlfriend or something?”

“NO! No no no no no, she’s a friend, a childhood friend! Her husband too. They have three children!” That last piece of information was unnecessary, but at that point Yuuri would just babble about anything to keep Victor from asking him about his love life, present or past, and with no foreseeable future.

“Oh, okay then. By the way, I was thinking: do you mind if I still keep _Agape_ for me, at least for now?”

“Um, no, not at all. I mean… I composed it _for_ you, so… but… are you gonna do something with it?”

Victor shrugged. “I can choreograph a routine while you work on the new piece. It’ll be my backup plan.”

Yuuri stopped dead on his tracks. “Wait. What about the music that other musician was composing for you?”

“What other musician?”

“The… the one who composed _Stammi Vicino_? You said you asked him to work on a piece, in case I couldn’t deliver something to you in time?”

“Oh, right. Yeah.” When Victor didn’t meet his eyes Yuuri had a bad feeling about what he was about to hear. “Yeah, that was… not true. Sorry.”

Victor made as if to continue walking, but Yuuri didn’t move. “So… all you have is _Agape_?”

“Kinda, yeah. Well, and the new piece you’re about to compose!”

But that smile in the shape of a heart couldn’t distract Yuuri this time, not when his eyes were glued to his own shoes. Victor took a step towards him.

“Yuuri, I’m sorry, I just… when we talked on skype you seemed so nervous that… I guess I… wanted to reassure you?”

“Sure. No problem,” he muttered.

But there had been no need to lie about it. One shouldn’t just _say_ the first thing that popped into their heads to reassure other people. What had that ever accomplished?

When he finally looked up at Victor, though, he was astonished to find concern written all over his face, and the resentment that had just started to build up melted away.

 _“So I knew I wanted_ you _to compose something for my next season, if you could.”_

Victor wanted _Yuuri_ ’s music. And, there was no point in denying it, Yuuri had always wanted to compose for Victor Nikiforov, the Russian Living Legend - had dreamed about it ever since he’d composed his first piece for a short program. But now… now he also wanted to make music for the Victor who had bashfully confessed he’d cried over _A Night of Winters_.

Somehow, they didn’t seem like the same Victor.

Except that they were, of course, they had to be - it was just that one of them was a romanticized idea Yuuri had had in his head for years, and the other was an actual human being. It was a new idea, but one he thought he could get used to all the same.

 

* * *

 

 

The next day Victor woke up early again for his morning run and made a beeline for Yuuri’s bedroom, ready to wake him up - but finding nothing other than a door cracked open and an empty room. All Katsukis were already up and about downstairs, but no Yuuri there either. Maccachin was already trying to find him, as if she too were missing him, and Victor followed her out of the house until she stopped at the…

Oh.

That was the studio, wasn’t it?

It was a small separate construction from the main house which had probably been used as a storage room of sorts before. But now it was a studio. Did Yuuri have his equipment there? A piano? What did it look like on the inside??

Maccachin sat down and scratched a little at the door with one paw, but there was no answer. Victor also knocked lightly, nothing. Was Yuuri even there?

He turned the handle as delicately as he could and opened the door - and the minute he did, a plethora of sounds came out - of course, he hadn’t heard anything before because the door was soundproof. He peeped in through the smallest crack: Yuuri had his back turned to the door, sitting at a table with a computer, playing the guitar and wearing gigantic headphones. Unaware of his visitors. He stopped, adjusted something on the program on the screen, listened, shook his head, made some more adjustments and played again. That went on for a couple more times, the only difference being in the vehemence with which Yuuri shook his head or sighed.

And wasn’t he wearing the same clothes from last night?

Oh my god, he hadn’t even gone to bed, had he?

Victor felt incredibly guilty. He should’ve just taken _Agape_ , paid for it, thanked Yuuri and moved on, instead of putting him through this. But no, he just had to be selfish and demand a new piece, didn’t he?

He was torn for a moment between walking in and insisting that Yuuri go to sleep, or leaving him alone, but in the end he silently closed the door and walked away. For all he knew, Yuuri was on the verge of a breakthrough; best to let him decide when (or if) he should go to bed.

Since he was on his own, he might as well take something with him on that morning run.

 

~

 

Yuuko was more than eager to let him use the rink at the Ice Castle - they wouldn’t open for another 2 hours, so he could skate as much as he wanted in peace.

Victor stretched a little and went onto the ice, starting his skate warm-up more out of muscle memory than anything. No rush. He always made a point of savoring those first moments, when he could just glide aimlessly around; he’d eventually throw in swizzles, crossovers and everything else he’d spent twenty years doing almost every day, but those very first moments, that slow lap around the rink, that was always him falling in love with the ice all over again.

His first love.

And if he was being honest, his only love.

(Other than Maccachin, of course.)

_"What kind of love do you want to skate about?"_

Hell if he knew.

It was not as though he’d never known love off the ice, he had. He’d had a family once, for instance, but lost them so long ago he’d forgotten what it felt like.

He’d also had a few lovers, though not half as many as the gossip magazines would have people believe (the rumours didn’t bother Victor, per se, but they did puzzle him: where had that reputation come from?). He had looked for something enduring in the arms of boyfriends, even if none had lasted for more than a few months. And he’d looked for something of a more fleeting nature between the legs of men whose names he’d forget in the morning.

And now, for the past couple of years even those brief nights of pleasure had lost their luster and he didn’t know where else to turn, how to remember the flames - how to find himself again. Or allow someone to find him.

Except that last year’s GP banquet had given him something.

 _The Nereid_ had made him hold his breath, and that warm smile that fled from him had made him look - but the man behind both had made him remember.

 

_Another year, another banquet. Smile at the cameras, talk to the sponsors, laugh at their jokes, thank them for their continuous support, pictures, sip your champagne, smile again, help Yakov keep an eye on Yura, talk to the other skaters, be approachable, sociable, charming, more pictures._

_All of that was knee-jerk response by now, and he knew how to wear all of that like a second skin._

_A predictable, dreary second skin that felt like shackles._

_“Yuuri!”_

_Oh god, what had Yura done? The banquet had barely started._

_But when he turned, what he found was Celestino Cialdini gently scolding someone._

_“Stop trying to blend in with the walls, have some fun! Here!” A flute of champagne was shoved into someone’s hands._

_The cute composer._ The Nereid _._

_Yuuri Ka… something._

_He would’ve barely recognized him, though. At the GPF he’d been wearing jeans, a white shirt, a blue cardigan and a scarf, his hair combed back, the whole thing very charming. Now he had a nondescript suit, an ugly tie and his hair down - and he_ still _looked attractive, albeit slightly miserable._

_Ah. Yakov and ISU people. Time to smile._

 

_~_

 

_Finally alone, Victor saw Yuuri drinking by himself on the other side of the room.  Should he go over there?_

_“Oy, what are you looking at?” someone grumbled next to him._

_He’d just won the Junior GP and was still sullen; classic Yuri Plisetsky._

_“Hi Yura, how was the talk with the sponsors?”_

_“Boring. And you didn’t answer, what were you looking at?”_

_“Well...” That wasn’t really of Yuri’s concern, but it’d be nice for the boy to become more aware of the music he used for his programs, too, instead of just letting Yakov pick whatever for him.“You see that Japanese man near the table?”_

_“The one with the glasses?”_

_“Yeah. He’s a composer. I wanna talk to him, maybe commission something for next season.”_

 

_~_

 

_All his mental efforts in trying to come up with a way to approach Yuuri were wasted: Yuuri himself took the initiative and walked towards them, stopping right in front of Yura._

_“Hey! You and me, right now, on the dance floor.”_

_“_ What _?!”_

_Victor snorted._

_“Victor, that’s not funny!”_

_“It kinda is!”_

_Yuuri clicked his tongue. “Ohhhhhh, I see, it’s not funny because you can’t dance, can you?”_

_Victor put a hand to his mouth to cover a smile, while the teenager scowled._

_“Of course I can dance, you moron, what are you even...”_

_But Yuuri just shook his head slowly. Agonizingly slowly, and for so long that Victor could see all the fuses in Yura’s head blowing one by one._

_“Of course you can’t, that’s why you don’t wanna go. Oh!” He snapped his fingers in an eureka moment. “I know. You can’t go because you need your coach’s permission, right? Aww!”_

_His lips drew up in a mocking pout, and Victor worried he just might die from suppressed laughter, while Yura seemed about to have a stroke._

_“I don’t need anyone’s permission! Let’s do this right now!” Yuri tugged at his tie ineffectively, trying to look “ready to go”, but only managed to look like someone who had no idea how to loosen a tie. Japanese Yuuri smiled and took off his blazer, unceremoniously shoving it in Victor’s hands._

_“Hold this. You’ll be the judge.”_

_“Me?”_

_“Yeah Victor, you be the judge!” Yura almost screamed to his face._

_“Um, sure?”_

_Yura headed for the dance floor in stomps, with Yuuri sauntering after him and rolling up his sleeves. Then he suddenly stopped and turned on his wheels, going back to Victor in three strides and handing him his glasses._

_“These are my glasses,” he declared as if it weren’t obvious. “You_ have _to take care of my glasses. They’re_ important _._ _"_

_Victor carefully put them in his own pocket. “Consider it done.”_

_“You’ll watch, right?”_

_Victor blinked. Yuuri’s face was incredibly close to his, and_ god _his eyes were so pretty._ He _was so pretty._

_“Yes. Yes, I’ll be watching.”_

_“Good.”_

_He brusquely walked away and Victor breathed. Japanese Yuri was drunk, of course, but still seemed in control of everything he did, even if he did stagger a little when trying to walk in a straight line. Even his speech wasn’t as slurred as it should be._

_And he was… breakdancing._

_He was spinning on his head and then doing a headstand (while Yuri did a jeté on the side), and most people around them had stopped whatever they were doing in order to watch and take pictures._

_“What is going on over there?” Christophe, finally free from his coach as well._

_“It’s… a dance-off. Apparently.”_

_“Hmm.” Chris was so completely unfazed by that information that one might think dance-offs were a tradition at the GP banquet. “Are they aware they’re dancing completely different things?”_

_“I don’t think they are, no.”_

_Chris coolly took his phone out and started filming, while Victor took pictures - he needed to have as many pictures as possible to torment Yura for the next… decade, probably._

_(And it wouldn’t hurt to have pictures of Yuuri breakdancing.)_

 

_~_

 

_“Who won, Victor?” Yura growled, and Yuuri nodded furiously for way too long._

_“Hmm...” Victor pretended to think about it, his chin resting on his hand. “Sorry Yura, I’ll have to say Japanese Yuri takes this one.”_

_“WHAT?!”_

_“It is true, he did dance better,” Chris agreed solemnly._

_Yuri would kill him when they got to St. Petersburg, he knew. But the warm (drunken) smile Yuuri gave him was totally worth it._

_“So, we’re having dance-offs, are we?” Chris purred next to him, and Victor froze. He knew that tone, Chris never meant anything... wholesome with it._

_“Chris...”_

_“How about you take_ me _on next, mister…?”_

_“I. Am Katsuki Yuuri, and you. Are ON.” Yuuri answered a bit too loud, and a couple of heads turned to look._

_“I should warn you, Katsuki Yuuri: you won’t be able to keep up with me.”_

_Yuuri seemed positively offended by that. “I can keep up with anything!”_

 

_~_

 

 _Watching Yuuri pole-dance in nothing but his boxers, tie and socks, perched on Chris’ thighs (who was wearing nothing but thongs, obviously) and showering both of them in champagne, Victor had to agree: he really_ could _keep up with anything._

_Under normal circumstances Victor would’ve wondered where on Earth Chris had gotten that pole from, but he was currently too busy marveling at Pole Dancing Yuuri to be concerned with such trivial matters. Yura was this close to foaming at the mouth._

 

_~_

 

_Yuuri had some trouble putting his shirt back on, but insisted on doing it himself._

_“What about you?”_

_Victor’s eyes widened. “Me?”_

_“Yeah. What do you wanna dance?”_

_“Oh, I…  why um, why don’t you decide?”_

_“Great! And what do I get when I win?”_

_Victor smiled. When had been the last time he’d smiled that much that involuntarily?_

_“I don’t know, what do you want?”_

_Still fighting with the buttons of his shirt and skipping a couple of them, Yuuri mumbled a really long answer that Victor didn’t understand a word of. Not because of the mumbling, but because it was all in Japanese (well, he_ assumed _it was Japanese)._

_Next thing he knew Yuuri had thrown himself into his arms, still babbling, his hips doing light grinding movements that made it really difficult for Victor to focus on what was being said, even when Yuuri switched back to English._

_“I’m sorry, I didn’t…?”_

_“If I win this dance-off you’ll skate for me, right?”_

_Victor swallowed. “Yes.”_

_“Then I think… I think I’m gonna need my pants.”_

_As he gave Yuuri his pants back, Victor could feel Chris’ amused look following his every move; and because he was so busy avoiding eye contact with the Swiss skater, he didn’t notice when Yuuri’s hand reached out, only that he_ had _grabbed his tie and was now pulling him closer._

_“Let’s tango, you and I.”_

 

_~_

 

_Sometimes Yuuri led, sometimes he allowed Victor to lead, sometimes Victor was aware of how much his jaw hurt from that smile that just wouldn’t leave his face - then Yuuri laughed in the most infectious way and dipped him, holding Victor safely with an arm strength he wouldn’t have suspected the day before. And the next moment Victor was laughing right along._

 

_~_

 

_In the end, Celestino insisted on seeing Yuuri back to his hotel. Victor hastily scribbled his email and phone number on a piece of paper, which Yuuri put in his pocket along with his glasses. Most people were leaving already, and Yakov’s team was only waiting for Mila to finish chatting with Sara before they too could be on their way (Yura was already starting to doze off in a corner of the room). He watched as Celestino helped Yuuri - who now had a slight limp (had he hurt himself?) -, and they left. But right before he walked out the door, Yuuri turned his head and smiled at Victor over his shoulder._

_How was it possible that one smile could make him feel both drunk and stone-cold sober at the same time?_

 

Clapping.

The sound brought Victor back to the present with a jolt: he’d been so lost in thought while skating that his body had gone through his SP from last season without his permission, and he’d just landed a jump - a triple axel? Probably, it was one of his favorites.

From the stands, Yuuri clapped and smiled at him.

When had he even gotten there, how had he missed him coming in?

Victor had added a couple more Yuuris to his mental collection the day before: Sleepy Yuuri (messy, shirtless, sheet marks everywhere, a Yuuri that did quite a number on Victor’s breathing), Extra Flustered Yuuri (kinda like Skype Yuuri, but leveled up) and Disappointed-He’d-Been-Lied-To Yuuri (the one that made Victor’s stomach sink with guilt, he really should’ve thought that one through).

But this was warm, engaging, Smiley Yuuri.

Victor basked in the sight for a couple of seconds, carefully filing it away.

Suddenly self-conscious, he ran a hand over his brow, trying to do something about the hair glued to it and look a bit more presentable, and gave his single-man audience a shy wave. He was rewarded with an even bigger smile as Yuuri leaned on the barrier of the rink.

“Found you!”

Victor automatically skated towards him, as if being pulled - which he was, because he had to see it up close. The last time he’d seen that smile had been from across a room, over the shoulder, immediately out the door. But here it was again.

He leaned over the barrier and smiled. “Yeah, you have.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe this is an AU about Yuuri composing, and yet there was no Yuuri composing to be seen in this chapter... Sorry about that! XD I promise there'll be loads more in a very near future!
> 
> Thanks to [PenelopeUlyssea](http://penelopedulysses.tumblr.com/) for betaing. You're my Phichit! ;)
> 
> And thank you guys once again for reading! Feel free to tell me what you think or to hit me up on tumblr! ^^


	4. Breathing below surface

“Hasetsu? Where the hell is Hasetsu?”

Mila giggled. “In Japan, Yura, obviously. I thought you’d make the connection on your own?”

“Shut up, you hag!”

Yakov frowned at both of them. “Mila, Yuri, don’t start. On the ice, now.”

Mila shrugged and obeyed, but Yuri stayed on the bench, staring at his phone as if it had offended him.

 

**v-nikiforov**

Ninja! #hasetsucastle #ninjahouse #maccachin #hasetsu

 

Hasetsu, in fucking Japan. Why?

 

 _“Where’s Victor? He’s never_ this _late.”_

_Yakov huffed and grumbled something Yuri couldn’t quite make out, although he was pretty sure he’d heard ‘selfish’ and ‘irresponsible’ thrown in there._

_“Maybe he’s sick,” Mila conjectured while stretching. Then a thought struck her and she turned to them, horrified. “What if Maccachin is sick?”_

_“No one’s sick!” Yakov nearly shouted. “Victor only thinks of himself, that’s what this is!”_

_Yuri crossed his arms petulantly. “So is he coming or not? He’s got stuff to do here, you know.”_

_“Don’t hold your breath,” Yakov growled, tapping on his phone a couple of times. “See for yourself.”_

_Yuri grabbed the phone and read the message:_

 

**Victor**

I won’t be coming to the rink for a couple of days (weeks?), going to Japan to seek inspiration

 

_That was all the message said._

_Yuri stared at it in disbelief while Mila, reading it over his shoulder, just snorted._

_“HE’S IN JAPAN?!” Yuri yelled. Mila burst into laughter and Yakov just cursed in response._

_“Yakov, are you_ sure _?” Yuri insisted. That had to be a mistake, Victor wouldn’t simply pack up and leave when he_ knew _Yuri was counting on him._

_Or would he?_

_He got his own phone out of the bag and started typing furiously._

_“Don’t waste your time, Yuri, he’s not answering.”_

_Yuri ignored him and hit ‘send’, anxiously watching as if he could will the two check marks at the bottom of the message to turn blue._

_Nothing._

_“I’m going to his apartment, Yakov.”_

_“You’re doing no such thing! Besides, he’s not there, I checked it myself. The doorman saw Victor leave with Maccachin and a couple of bags last night. He’s gone, kid. Mila, stop laughing!”_

_“That’s impossible! He wouldn’t just_ leave _!”_

_“He would and he did. Victor only ever does what he wants. Let it go and start skating.”_

_Meanwhile, Mila was still chuckling and sending an audio message. “Georgi, you’re NOT gonna believe this!”_

_“Mila! On the ice, now!”_

_The skater cheerfully ignored Yakov, while Yuri made one desperate last attempt: he double tapped Victor’s number on his contact list and put the phone to his ear, hopeful._

_Voice mail._

_“…and_ this _sound was Yura throwing his phone on the floor. Georgi, you_ have _to come back and see for yourself!”_

 

Now Yuri couldn’t look away from Victor’s selfie, showing in between the dozen cracks on the screen of his phone.

What the hell was he doing in a random city in Japan? He’d never talked about it, never shown any special interest in Japanese culture or had Japanese friends. There were no Japanese skaters that mattered in the senior divisions – well, there was that one really great couple in pair skating, and that ice dancer as well, she was ok. But Victor had never talked to them, had he? The only Japanese person he’d ever seen him talking to was –

No.

_No._

Son of a...

Ignoring Yakov’s shouts, he angrily typed “yuri katsky” on the search bar on his phone, but only got mixed results of random people. Fuck, was that not his name?

“yuri katsky composer”

 

 **Did you mean: yuri** **_katsuki_ ** **composer?**

 

**Yuuri Katsuki – Wikipedia**

 

 **Yuuri Katsuki** (勝生 勇利, _Katsuki Yūri_ ) is a Japanese composer and pianist known for his scores for films produced by Studio Ghibli.

 

**1 Early Life**

**2 Career**

**3 Works**

**3.1 Television**

**3.2 Theatrical releases**

**3.3 Other works**

**4 Awards**

**5 Personal Life**

**6 References**

**7 External Links**

 

**Early Life**

Yuuri Katsuki was born in Hasetsu, Saga Prefecture, Kyushu, Japan, where his family owns and operates the last bathhouse remaining in town.

 

“Yuri, stop breaking your damn phone!”

 

* * *

 

 “Yuuri!”

Phichit beamed at him on his computer screen, and Yuuri could already feel some of the tension leave his shoulders, a slow grin spreading across his face.

“Hi Phichit!”

He’d spent most of his adult life living with Phichit, and not having him around now was one of the weirdest parts of being back in Hasetsu.

“So you _finally_ made some time for your sad, forlorn roommate?” he whined dramatically.

Yuuri rolled his eyes, a constant in their relationship.

“Ever the drama queen.”

“Me? I’m not the one who flew across the globe out of a crisis of faith!”

And that was the thing about his friend: if anyone else said that it’d send Yuuri running and hiding under the bed out of guilt – but when _Phichit_ said them in his open way, it felt freeing somehow. He knew with absolute certainty that he wasn’t being judged. Teased? Yes, always, but never judged. In some aspects, Phichit felt more like home than the actual house he’d grown up in.

“Well, I did learn from the best, you know,” he said in a low voice, biting back a smile. Phichit threw his hands in the air.

“And the student surpasses the master!” He dropped the theatricals then and showered Yuuri with his thousand-watt smile. “And how’s the music coming along?”

“What music?...” Yuuri mumbled grumpily. A week had gone by since Victor had told him what he wanted, but Yuuri still came out of the studio empty-handed every night.

Phichit raised his eyebrows. “That bad?”

“ _Worse_ . I have _no idea_ where to start. How can I compose about something I don’t know anything about?!”

“You could watch a few movies? Maybe some porn.”

“ _Phichit_!” Yuuri screeched, face growing instantly hot.

“What? He wants a piece about desire, doesn’t he?”

Yuuri buried his face in his hands. Between Victor’s absurd requests and Phichit’s absurd suggestions, he could _hear_ his sanity deteriorating by the second. He took a deep breath.

“I just need a story to work with… something I can _visualize_ …”

“Porn is _very_ visual, Yuuri, but it’s true you won’t find much of a story there,” his friend conceded.

Yuuri laughed in spite of himself. “Yeah, guess I’ll have to watch something else!”

“And how are you getting along with Victor?”

“Well, I guess. I mean, he’s great, but… it’s… weird,” he admitted.

“Weird how?”

“I don’t know, it’s just… _he’s_ just… not what I thought? He’s so… _real_.”

Phichit’s laugh hit home just how silly he sounded. But there was no other way to put it: 5-time World Champion Victor Nikiforov, the image on the posters that had littered his bedroom and his life, was a statuesque figure who reigned over the ice, an unreachable ideal; but _Victor_ , the man who liked his music, was chipper, approachable, a bit too direct, all touches, and a reality Yuuri had to face every morning at the inn.

“A ‘never meet your heroes’ kinda thing?”

“N-no, I wouldn’t say that… I’m not disappointed, just… baffled. It takes some getting used to.”

“Well, enjoy! This is more than you ever hoped for, right? Victor Nikiforov, flying all the way to Japan and staying at your parents’ house because he just _can’t do_ without your music? That’s, like, The Dream!”

Yuuri smiled shyly. “Yeah, I guess… I wouldn’t put it in _those_ words, but… yeah.”

“There you go, then! And what are you gonna do after you’re done with Victor’s piece? Are you staying there?”

“Um… we’ll see… anyway, that’s not...”

“Yuuri, _please_. It’s fine if you don’t know, you can just say that, but don’t evade. Not me.”

Yuuri blinked. Phichit had his Serious Face and Serious Tone on, and he didn’t have it in him to pretend he hadn’t noticed. Besides, if he started running even from Phichit, then he’d never stop running. Phichit was where he drew the line.

“Right. You’re right, sorry. I... still don’t know. With Victor and the piece, I… I haven’t thought much about it. Sorry.”

Phichit’s smile came back, a shade more relieved.

“That’s fine, then! You’ll think about it when you can. But I miss you.”

“Yeah, I miss you too.”

They talked a while longer about Phichit’s routines for the new season; skating to _Shall We Skate?_ was his life-long dream, and Yuuri wanted to be there when his friend achieved it. He promised he’d try to attend at least one of the qualifiers. “Or the Grand Prix Final, you know!” Phichit winked at him. To be that confident he’d be at the GPF… Yuuri wished he had half this much natural confidence.

When their FaceTiming was over Yuuri went back to the piano, to start Attempt No.257 at something that might resemble desire in musical form. But what he ended up doing was playing _Agape_ – its initial version, back when it was only [a piano solo](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kbqXzh2OSOg&list=FLsdlfmxULCqDAhPxEQYU0PQ&index=10).

He closed his eyes as his fingers easily found the way along the keys, the piece already turned into muscle memory, its meaning pouring out of him with every note.

This, this was something that made sense, something he understood. Worship. Loving something higher and brighter than yourself. Looking up at something on a pedestal and admiring it from the ground with reverence – knowing you’ll never be able to reach it but being _fine_ with it, because some things are not meant to be reached. Some stars shone too brightly, you could only love them from afar, never asking for their love in return.

What Victor was asking, though… it was the exact opposite. Want. Wanting something, someone, and being wanted back. Reaching out and touching, having, drowning in its closeness, asking for more. Something that, to Yuuri, defied all sense. Something he knew nothing of.

His hands left the keys and rested on his lap again, the final note still faintly echoing in the studio - and he heard a sigh behind him. He wheeled around on the piano bench: Victor was leaning against the doorway, his eyes closed and his expression peaceful.

“Victor?!”

He opened his eyes and smiled, looking dreamily into the distance rather than at Yuuri.

“How do you do it?” He asked softly.

“Do what?”

“Create beauty so easily?”

Yuuri’s eyes widened, and there was nothing he could do about the flush creeping up his neck and taking over his face. How could Victor _say_ those things with a straight face?

“Um, I don’t… that was just… how long have you been there?”

“A couple of minutes. That was _Agape_ , wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, this is… how it started.”

“It’s gorgeous. I could listen to it all day.”

Yuuri ducked his head, trying not to smile too much. “Thanks.”

“Aren’t you hungry? You’ve been here for hours.”

“Not really, I –” Yuuri’s stomach manifested itself in an unmistakable volume, as if summoned by the word “hungry”. He immediately tried to repress it with his hands, but Victor laughed.

“Your stomach won’t lie to me, even if you will! Come on, let’s eat!”

Yuuri frowned: _let’s_? “You’ve… you’ve already eaten, right?”

“No, I was waiting for you.”

Yuuri stared and then looked at his phone: it was past 10:00pm. Victor had spent the day practicing at the Ice Castle, but still had not had dinner?

“Victor, you must be _starving_ , why did you wait?!” Yuuri hastily stood up and got his windbreaker from the couch, trying to put it on as fast as possible and not make Victor wait a second longer than he already had; however, the only thing he accomplished was to put on the right sleeve on his left arm, and be left fumbling helplessly for the other sleeve; what step had he gotten wrong?

Victor chuckled and beckoned him to come closer. He obeyed without a second thought, and Victor gently slid the coat from Yuuri’s shoulders.

“Turn around,” he murmured, holding his coat open for him. Yuuri did as he was told, slipping his arms in the correct sleeves this time; Victor pulled the coat up in one smooth motion, his thumbs lightly brushing his arms as he did it, and Yuuri was suddenly very aware of the lack of distance between them.

“As for your question,” Victor continued, his voice so close to his ear it made Yuuri clench his jaw, “I waited because I wanted to have dinner with you.”

Yuuri had no idea how to answer that, not while Victor adjusted his collar for him, slowly, carefully, still so close that the smell of his shampoo was the only thing on Yuuri’s mind for a few seconds – until Victor’s fingers grazed against the short hairs in his neck; Yuuri’s breathing hitched, and just like that the hands were gone, and Victor had taken a step back.

“Besides,” he started, his voice a little hoarse. He cleared his throat and started again. “Besides, someone needs to make sure you’re eating properly. I get the distinct impression you don’t do it very often.”

“Thanks,” Yuuri muttered with his back still turned to Victor, trying to get his breathing back to what it should be. What he needed was to leave the studio and catch some of the cold night air. “Let’s go, then.”

They made their way back to the main house, the skater making small talk and Yuuri replying whenever necessary – luckily it wasn’t too often, Victor was in a very talkative mood.

And in the back of his mind there was a thought nagging at him, one that he both tried to ignore and wanted to focus on: Victor’s hands. Reaching out, touching. Victor’s hands leaving his neck way too soon.

 

~

 

“Yuuri, you’re so lucky,” Victor grumbled, all grace of manners out the window as he chose to speak while eating.

“How so?”

“You get to eat your mom’s cooking every day!”

Yuuri had to laugh at that. “You’re only half-right, I hadn’t eaten her food for quite a while, actually.”

“What do you mean? I thought you lived here?”

“Well, I…” That was a complicated topic Yuuri didn’t want to delve into, Victor would laugh at him. “No, I live in Detroit with Phichit.”

Victor tilted his head. “Oh? But you said you didn’t have a lover.”

“I don’t! Phichit’s a friend, we’re just friends!” What _was it_ with Victor and his fixation on Yuuri’s love life? “He’s my best friend, that’s all.”

“A lover can be a friend too, Yuuri.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Yuuri mumbled. Victor’s surprised look made him realize a beat too late he’d said it out loud.

“And how’s the choreography going?” He added hurriedly, trying to focus on his food and praying Victor would just take the bait and let the whole thing go already.

Victor shrugged. “It’s done already – I thought of most of it on the flight here, really. It was just a matter of putting it into practice and adjusting. I can use it as my short program this season if I want to, though I’d better show it to Yakov and see what he thinks.”

He tried not to look _too_ relieved: if Victor had a full routine put together for _Agape_ , then Yuuri had already delivered, more or less. He could try and compose the new piece with that specific weight off his shoulders.

[ _Unless he’s lying to you again, to make you feel better._ ]

Oh my god. He was, wasn’t he?

[ _Of course he is, he just feels sorry for the mess that you are. Bet he regrets asking you to compose for him in the first place._ ]

Yuuri felt his hands getting clammy, the food in front of him slowly getting blurred.

“…that is, if you don’t mind.”

Victor was still talking.

He looked up. “Sorry?”

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, I was just… what did you say?”

Victor spoke a bit more gently. “I was just wondering if you could go to the rink with me tomorrow and film me skating _Agape_ , so I can send it to Yakov.”

“Oh.” So there _was_ a routine. He breathed. “Yes. Yes, of course. I’ll be happy to!”

“Really, you don’t mind?”

Yuuri smiled brightly at him. “Not at all, I’d like to see it too!”

Watching Victor skate was always an experience, even after all those years. But being the only one there to see it, like when he’d caught Victor skating the short program from last season… that was something he was sure he’d never have enough of. Victor’s eyes widened a little and then his features softened.

“I’d like you to see it too. It’s _your_ music, so it’s only fair that you get to see the routine before anyone else.”

Yuuri laughed a little. “I didn’t know that was how it worked! I never got to see other skaters’ routines before a competition!”

Victor straightened his back and gave him an offended look. “Yuuri, _please_. I’m not _other skaters_.”

That he was very much not, as Yuuri was painfully aware. He raised his eyebrows.

“I see. And did you fly to Venice to show your _Stammi Vicino_ routine to _signore_ Scandello too?”

He’d googled the Italian composer a few days back; the thought of Victor flying to Italy only to dramatically skate his routine to a small, wrinkled 82-year old man made it near impossible for him to keep serious.

“Yuuri,” Victor whined, “you’re _mocking_ me, I can’t believe this. I thought we were _friends_.”

“That’s what friends do,” he pointed out.

Victor sighed loudly. “You see this, Maccachin? You’re my only safe haven, the only –”

“Your safe haven’s sleeping.”

Victor looked around: the poodle was curled up in a corner, in what used to be Vicchan’s bed. The bed was way too small for Maccachin, but she didn’t seem to mind at all, happily snoring with a chew toy still in her mouth.

“Fine! You’re all I have now, Yuuri. But let’s try and keep the mocking out of the conversation, shall we?” Victor conceded, a smile barely concealed in his poor attempt at a serious face. Yuuri snorted and agreed.

“And what are we going to talk about, then, if I’m not allowed to make fun of you?”

“Hmm… you asked me how my routine was going, now it’s my turn. How’s your music going?”

Yuuri rubbed his neck. “Um… not well? I’m not sure of… I mean, it’s rare for me to work with something so… abstract. I usually work with, like, stories. So…”

“What about one of your own stories? Surely you can find passion in one of them?”

“I… I don’t have any… none that matters, anyway.”

“None that matters,” he echoed. “I see.”

Victor fell silent for a minute or so, his eyes focusing on something not there, and Yuuri wondered what he was thinking.

He ventured. “Victor?”

The skater started a little – he’d been much further away than Yuuri had thought, and was now considering him with a weird look.

“I’ll give you a story then, maybe you can visualize what I mean,” he smiled – a pale imitation of his usual smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes, and Yuuri frowned a little.

“Picture…” Victor threw his head back, looking at the ceiling, “picture a playboy. A man to whom love is nothing but a game, seduction just something to play at and win.”

Yuuri nodded, serious, adjusting his glasses.

“The playboy arrives at a certain town and seduces women left and right. Not satisfied, he decides to pursue the most beautiful woman in town. After all, love is just a game, right? She doesn’t play along at first, but as the game of love and seduction unfolds, she dances more and more to this tune. She can’t play at it as well as he can and ends up falling for him. He wins. He’s finally quenched. So he leaves her, she’s nothing more than another notch in his belt, and he moves on to the next town.”

Victor finally looked back at him. “How’s that for a story?”

“It’s… great. Very visual, actually.” Oddly specific, but great.

“Mmm. I thought you might like it.”

They were both silent for a few moments, Victor tracing patterns on the table with his finger, Yuuri looking at it without really looking – the playboy story might as well be a movie, or an OVA, and that he knew how to compose for. The thing was, the piano probably wouldn’t do; for him, the piano was for love, real love, devotion, not… nonchalant, heartless seduction. The guitar, maybe? Yes, he could try a few things with the guitar, see what came out of it. What else could he –

“Will that be enough inspiration for you? Yuuri?” Victor’s low tone insinuated itself into his consciousness, breaking the silence and his train of thought.

“Oh, um, yes? I think so, yes. I’ll have to… well, go into the studio and see.”

Victor leaned towards him and immediately occupied the forefront of Yuuri’s thoughts – because between the inn’s guest robe hanging loosely from Victor (showing more skin than Yuuri thought he had any right to see) and his eyes (too blue, too fastened on Yuuri’s), he had no other option but to pay every bit of attention to the skater.

“I’m sure you’ll be able to find that passion. Isn’t there anything you can think of, Yuuri? Something that you desire?”

Yuuri glanced at Victor’s hands – one of them brushing against his own on the table – and then back to Victor. He wanted to answer, he _knew_ the answer. Right? It was right there at the edge of his mind, but when he tried to look at it directly, it escaped him.

Something he wanted.

Something that made him ask for more.

Something that was over way too soon.

“Katsudon!”

Victor blinked. Shook his head slightly. “What?”

“Sorry, I, I have to… I got… places to… excuse me!”

 

~

 

He’d had a spare key to Minako’s dance studio since forever; he’d tried to return it to her the day he’d left for Detroit, but she’d refused.

_“You think I’ll trust anyone else with it? It’s yours.”_

He’d been grateful for those words back then (how many years ago, 10?) but now he was really grateful for the key itself.

Minako was probably still at her bar but she wouldn’t mind, she never had. Knowing her, the only thing she _would_ mind would be Yuuri wanting to use the studio and not doing it out of shyness.

He took off his coat and hung it on the coat rack near the door with an overwhelming sense of nostalgia. Coming straight from school, hanging his coat, changing clothes and stepping into the studio, ready to spend the next few hours there. That had been his daily routine for years, and he missed every single minute of it.

All the hard work he’d put, all those long hours Minako had invested in him – all over in one wrong landing.

He walked down the hall without bothering to turn the lights on, he knew that place better than he knew himself, and found the door he wanted. The main room. Spacious, surrounded by mirrors, the old piano still in the same corner. The faint smell of dust coming from the hardwood floors made him wonder how often Minako still used that room.

The glass doors slid easily, there was no lock, and he let himself in. On the inside those glass doors were also mirrors, meaning that whenever parents came by to watch their kids practice the students didn’t get distracted – the only thing they were allowed to pay attention to was their alignment. (Minako had laughed when 14-year old Yuuri told her that police interrogation rooms had the same kind of glass.)

The old CD player was also there but Yuuri didn’t have anything to play, not even his cell phone, he’d only brought a change of clothes. But it was fine, it was not like he didn’t know the music or the steps by heart.

He changed clothes in the dark and finally turned on the lights, seeing a dozen Yuuris in all the mirrors around him. He took position.

 _Op.66. Prologue._ _Grand pas d’ensemble. Variation – La Fée des lilas._

The Lilac Fairy.

He’d wanted, he’d proposed, he’d even begged, but uselessly: the Detroit School of Arts had never cast a man as the Lilac Fairy for its production of _Sleeping Beauty_ and would not start then. They’d wanted him, yes, but only as the prince. Take it or leave it.

He’d taken it, of course, who wouldn’t have? They’d be performing in New York, L.A., Chicago, Miami, Toronto and London. He’d accepted the role and worked on it, trying to make it his own – never mind how many years he’d spent secretly practicing the Lilac Fairy variation. For him, she was the fulcrum of the entire ballet, and by far the most interesting part of it. As a child, he’d loved it because of Victor’s routine at the Junior Championship, but as a dancer, he loved it because it was just that beautiful, and he’d wanted to be the one to bring out its beauty.

What he’d gotten instead was the prince, and at only 16 years old he’d had no right to complain. It was a great opportunity and he’d _earned_ it. And as rehearsals had gone by he’d been happy, even fulfilled, maybe.

But one was all it had taken. One wrong landing of what had always been a familiar leap and he’d been suddenly splayed on the floor in excruciating pain, lifting his head to see his leg bent in a way nature had never intended. Hospital, orthopedic surgery, months of physical therapy, a three-inch scar on his knee and an injury that had never fully healed were what followed that last rehearsal.

That and the bitterness.

He’d refused to give in and gone back to dancing – only for his knee to pop out of place again, and for the doctor to warn him: he could continue trying to dance for a living, by all means, if what he wanted was an eventual metal bolt in his femur before he was 20, after which he’d simply never dance again.

He’d finally accepted it then. Grudgingly, bitterly, tearful, but accepted it, been held back a year at the DSA and changed his major to music. The piano was the one thing he loved and knew almost as much as dancing, and therefore the only logical choice.

He’d had to learn how to eat and exercise properly, now that he wasn’t in the hard regimen of a dancer anymore, how to recognize the new limits of his right leg, what he could and could not do in his new life. And he’d gone on to college still somewhat reeling from leftover self-pity as far as his senior year, when the new roommate the institution had designated him had shown up at his door: a cheerful Phichit Chulanont in his freshman year.

 

_“And can you still dance?”_

_“Not really, I mean… if I dance or exercise for too long my leg will hurt.”_

_He shook his head, smiling. “I don’t mean for a living. You can still_ dance _, right?”_

_“Oh. Yeah, I mean… yeah. It’s like… riding a bike?”_

_“Show me.”_

_“What?”_

_“Show me your fairy. The purple fairy.”_

_He rolled his eyes. “The_ Lilac _Fairy.”_

_“Potato, potahto. Show me!”_

_“I can’t dance in here, it’s too small!”_

_“Who says to dance in here? There are tons of studios in this place, and they’re all empty at this time, it’s past midnight!”_

_“Phichit…”_

_“Come on!”_

 

They’d bribed an indifferent security guard and opened one of the studios. Phichit had quickly found the music on youtube, and the minute that waltz had filled the room – just like it had filled his head and his heart for the better part of a decade – the dancing had started. He’d forgotten how much he’d missed it, how much it brought him peace of mind. Dancing had never been a mere activity or a craft for him: it had been his only emotional outlet, one that he was still learning to transfer to the piano back then.

The first thing he’d done the next morning was learn how to _play_ it, shocked at the realization that had never occurred to him before. He wouldn’t be able to dance whenever he needed an escape, so he’d need the piano to be there for him. He needed that waltz to be muscle memory on the keys just as much as it already was on the hardwood floors.

Now, though, he was back to square one, back to feeling like a 12-year old: seeing Victor’s face whenever he thought of the Lilac Fairy. The one thing that brought him peace of mind when nothing else did was now just another source of stress. Playing it at the piano was not enough: he had too much electricity piled up in his body, he needed to spend it somehow.

Victor’s hands on his neck, Victor looking at him with those eyes he felt like drowning in, asking for a piece about passion, getting close, touching him, seeking him at his studio. The only thing he wanted from Yuuri was the music requested, and he couldn’t let himself forget that. Victor flirted because that was his nature.

(...Did he _have_ to answer “katsudon”, though?)

 _Too much_ electricity piled up.

So he danced.

 

* * *

 

“Where’s Yuuri?”

Mari looked up. “Not in studio?”

Victor shook his head. “No, I’ve checked.”

“Try Minako-sensei.”

 

~

 

Minako laughed a little while pouring him a shot of whisky.

“She didn’t mean my bar, Victor. Yuuri is… not a great drinker. She meant my studio.”

“Oh.” Victor already knew Minako was a professional dancer with international renown back in her day (Yuuri had proudly talked about her Benois de la Danse, the only time he’d ever heard him sound proud of anything – and unsurprisingly, it was not about any of his own accomplishments); but it hadn’t occurred to him to think of Yuuri in her dance studio.

“But if you’re here, what’s he doing there?”

She shrugged. “Dancing, probably?”

Victor’s eyes grew huge, and Minako stopped mixing the drink she was preparing for herself, looking at him with more attention.

“You don’t know, do you? No, I guess Yuuri wouldn’t tell you.” She sighed. “He used to dance in my studio; when he was 15 he went to the Detroit School of Arts on a dance scholarship. He’s lived in Detroit since then, this is the first time in 10 years he’s been here for so long.”

“But… he’s not a dancer,” Victor felt stupid pointing out the obvious, but there had to be more to the story. Minako took one long sip of her drink.

“He injured his knee. He was about to go on an international tour with the DSA when he fell and his knee got dislocated. He had surgery and physical therapy, but he can’t dance for a living anymore. Can’t do anything physical for a living. So he switched to music - he’s been playing the piano since he was 10, you know.” She shrugged. “Don’t think you’ll ever hear this from him, though.”

Victor nodded. That explained a lot of things. The shame with which he’d said “I have a bad knee”, the picture he’d seen at the inn of a teenage Yuuri in a costume, the perfect posture he had at all times. The banquet.

“So… he’s in your studio now?”

“Maybe. I don’t know if he still dances in his spare time, he doesn’t talk about it.” She gave a dry chuckle. “He doesn’t talk about anything. But if he’s not anywhere else, he just might be there. Maybe it still feels like home.”

She took her keys out of her pocket. “Wanna go talk to him?”

 

~

 

Victor felt a little awkward going into the studio by himself, but Minako couldn’t leave the bar unmanned, and she’d given him full permission to make himself at home.

_“The entire first floor is the studio, I live on the second floor. Yuuri never goes upstairs unless I invite him, so he should be in one of the dance rooms. Probably the main one. It’s a big one on the left, with glass doors.”_

He walked in; he didn’t know where the light switch was but it was unnecessary: there was one strong source of light coming from one of the rooms to the left, and he followed that. As he got closer he could hear faint staccato sounds of feet landing lightly on a wooden floor; the glass doors were like a warm square of light in the darkness of the hall, and he wasn’t surprised to see Yuuri in the center of it.

He wasn’t surprised, but he held his breath nonetheless: the Lilac Fairy.

Victor would recognize it anywhere, anytime. He’d chosen the Lilac Fairy for his short program at the Junior Worlds Championship when he was 16 and broken his first record with it. Yakov and Lilia had been in the middle of an ugly divorce, but a truce had been agreed on so she could help Victor with his routine – and help him she had. She’d tortured him body and soul for one hellish year, but the astonishing number of performance points he’d gotten had been because of her.

She’d made him watch all possible variations of the Lilac Fairy, over and over again, specially Lyubov Kunakova’s.

_“One of the greatest lilac fairies to ever grace a stage. Watch her.”_

A decade had gone by since then, but he still knew the choreography as he knew himself, and he didn’t need the music to know it was the [Mariinsky’s Lilac Fairy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I9FF-Xsm2Zc) he was watching now. And with a slight start he realized there really was _no_ music playing. Yuuri was dancing to a waltz he could hear only in his head – except that Victor could hear it too, just by looking at him. He could _hear_ the rise and fall, the lilt in his every arabesque, the violins in his pirouettes and the fae-like piccolo in his jetés. The whole piece seemed to ooze out of him, as if Yuuri himself were just a vessel.

And as he watched him in that brightly lit, music-filled silence, he couldn’t help thinking that Danseur Yuuri was just as graceful, just as light on his feet as Kunakova’s Lilac Fairy had been. Every bit as pretty, and every bit a fae.

Every bit a nereid himself.

Calling.

And Victor heard the call way too often.

He couldn’t quite help it. Sure, he’d had a crush for a few months, but the music… he _wanted_ that music. The inspiration, the emotion, the sheer _life_ that seemed to be escaping through his own fingers was definitely there, in Yuuri and his music.

And now that he was here he couldn’t help answering the call – the one in Yuuri’s every subtle move, every blush, every fleeting smile, every time his brown eyes locked onto his. He heard the call and instinctively reached out each time, only to watch Yuuri flee and to be reminded that, really, he was making a fool of himself.

_“None that matters.”_

For Yuuri that had just been one dancing night among so many others and Victor clearly just someone to dance with for a few hours.

He’d said he wanted Yuuri to compose something for him, while the truth of the matter was that he wanted Yuuri to compose _about_ him. But he would just have to accept he was simply not a source of inspiration to the composer.

His thoughts were abruptly interrupted when the dancing came to a halt: Yuuri crouched and grabbed his knee with a pained expression barely concealed by the bangs falling on his face. Victor’s first reaction was to go to him, but he stopped himself: Yuuri would probably not like to have such a private moment intruded on. He’d come to Minako’s studio without telling anyone for a reason. He watched as Yuuri stayed in that position for a while before standing up and limping towards the bag he’d left near the piano. Victor took that as his cue to leave.

The minute he started walking Maccachin stood up, but instead of following him she looked at the glass doors, and then back at him.

“I know. He’ll come later,” he whispered.

 

~

 

They barely saw each other the next day. They had their morning run, and after that Yuuri took refuge in his own studio for the rest of the day, even skipping lunch – the promise of filming Victor skating forgotten. When Victor came back from the Ice Castle he made his utmost best to go about the rest of his day with a chill he did not possess: he went to the onsen, had dinner and drank a little with Minako. Eventually, though, he couldn’t ignore Yuuri’s absence any longer – he most likely hadn’t even eaten anything all day. He put on a shirt and pair of sweatpants and headed for the studio (walking outside in the inn’s robes in the evening was less pleasant than he’d anticipated).

Victor stopped outside for a moment, unsure; he didn’t hear music, but he wouldn’t anyway. He quietly opened the door: Yuuri was at the computer, with his head against the table and his arms loose by his side. He tried not to laugh: it was as though he was looking at the very embodiment of dejection.

He knocked and Yuuri lifted his head, a giant red mark on his forehead where he’d been leaning against the table.

“Victor, hi!”

“Sorry to disturb, you seem… hard at work,” he teased, hoping Yuuri wouldn’t mind.

Yuuri smiled and stood up, stretching. “You can laugh, but I’ll have you know inspiration is hard to come by sometimes!”

 _You’re telling me_. He didn’t say it out loud, though, only chuckled.

“You wanted to talk to me?”

“I came by to…” _to see you_ “well, to make sure you eat something.”

“I… I already ate? I think you were at the onsen.”

“Oh.” Well, that was that, then. He lingered for a moment longer, but there wasn’t anything left to say. “In that case I’ll… I’ll leave you to it, then.” He turned around.

“Do you wanna come in?”

Victor spun around as fast as if he were on ice. “You… I won’t be in the way?”

“No, not at all! You can stay. But you don’t have to!”

“No, I want to!”

But he didn’t move from the threshold, still staring at Yuuri. That was the very first time Yuuri invited him into the studio.

“So… come in then.”

“ _Yes_ , yes of course.”

He walked in, closed the door and looked around, not knowing what to do next. Yuuri raised his eyebrows.

“Couch?”

“Yes, good thinking, thank you.”

Yuuri laughed, with good reason: Victor had never felt this awkward. He sat on the couch and took his first proper look around. The place felt cozy with its light blue walls, the piano, the sofa (with an old-fashioned pattern that really didn’t match anything there), the professional-looking computer with a keyboard on a long table in the far corner, and some instruments in the other: a guitar, a tambourine, a cajón and what seemed to be a violin case. A lamp and an assortment of papers on a small writing desk completed the whole thing.

“I like it here,” he muttered.

“You do?” Yuuri seemed surprised. Victor nodded.

“Mmm. It’s very… _you_ , somehow.”

Yuuri smiled from his chair but said nothing. Victor could only wonder what kind of self-deprecating things had gone through his mind at that moment. A lot, if he knew Yuuri at all.

“So Yuuri, you’re a composer…”

Yuuri gasped theatrically and clutched imaginary pearls, eyes huge.

“Who _told_ you?” he whispered in the most horrified tone he could manage.

Victor blinked.

Oh.

 _Ohh_.

Sassy Yuuri.

Victor _liked_ that one.

He fought the slow smile that was bubbling up and kept his face straight. “I happened to notice it by myself, thank _you_.”

Yuuri snorted. “What was the rest of that sentence?”

“I was gonna ask you, before that _unbelievable_ sass, what kind of music you like to compose. Now I’m not so sure I wanna hear the answer, you’re probably just gonna mock me again,” he answered, with as much dignity as he could muster.

“That’s… a good question, actually. I like…” He thought for a few seconds. “I like to create different kinds of music, but I suppose… music that people can dance to. Or,” he smiled, “skate to, which is basically dancing on the ice, really.”

Victor smiled at him. Music to be danced to. Of course.

“You should take that approach with my piece, then.”

Yuuri groaned. “I’m not gonna lie, I’ll take whatever approach works at this point. But… I don’t see how? I mean, a piece about... um, about _desire_ doesn’t strike me as… I don’t know.”

Victor tapped his fingers on the arm of the couch, thoughtful, and finally came to a decision.

“Remember the story I told you last night?”

“About the playboy and the woman?”

“Yes. What’s that story about?”

“About…” Yuuri considered the question. “Love? Not… _love_ love, but, like… seduction?”

“So. Seduction’s nothing more than a dance, isn’t it?”

Yuuri smiled weakly. “A dance? What kind of dance?”

Victor looked away from him, towards the piano. “What other dance if not the tango?”

Silence.

One single beat of silence, before Yuuri stood up in a haste and his chair clashed against the table; Victor looked at him again, surprised: he was staring at Victor, his eyes wide, and stayed that way for some long seconds – then abruptly turned to his computer, looking for a file and muttering to himself. He found what he wanted and double-clicked, the first notes of _Agape_ filling the room.

Yuuri slowly shook his head, mumbling “It needs to be more… stripped. Bare.” He looked for another file.

This time what echoed throughout the studio was a violin; Victor was so confused it took him a while to recognize it as [a simpler version of ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_3rZ6luCzPk) [ _Agape_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_3rZ6luCzPk), with a discreet piano in the background and the violin leading the piece.

Yuuri was still looking at the computer, nodding slowly, when he took off his glasses and extended a hand to Victor. “Come.”

“Sorry?”

“Let’s tango.”

He could feel his face falling in surprise, still not sure if he’d heard right. Yuuri went up to him and extended his hand again, with an impatient beckoning gesture.

“Don’t worry, I’ll lead.”

Victor swallowed and stood up – there didn’t seem to be another choice, but it was not like he’d choose anything else either.

Yuuri took hold of Victor’s right hand, his own right on Victor’s back, holding him loosely but firmly; he brought their hips close and before Victor could process any of those sensations, Yuuri’s left foot was already stepping forward, leading him. Simple steps, but the sharp turn at the end and Yuuri’s closeness made all air disappear for a second. And it wasn’t exactly slow: the violin dominating the room was quick and demanding, just like his partner – who was now giving him a small appreciative smile, clearly pleased that Victor could follow him so effortlessly. His smile turned a little sly in a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment, and he pressed him on in another promenade, one that did nothing to calm down Victor’s heartbeat when it ended in a dip. His weight rested on Yuuri’s thigh and right arm for a couple of seconds, room spinning around him and heart pounding in his ears. Was he blushing? His face felt _so_ warm. Another smile flashed his way and he was brought up again with a small breathless laugh echoed by Yuuri – and in that split second he realized Yuuri was having _fun._  Simple, unabashed fun, like he rarely seemed to have.

Banquet Yuuri.

Confident Yuuri.

(And he looked at him without really _looking_ , as if he were seeing something else. His eyes never left Victor’s, but what he saw was beyond them.)

A spin.

For one moment all the physical contact left between them was Yuuri’s hand holding Victor’s, each standing at the end of the other’s arm, until Yuuri brought Victor back to him in a gentle but certain pull, and they were together again - and all he could think about was how much he wanted to bury his face in Yuuri’s hair. A promenade, one of Yuuri’s legs fitting snugly between Victor’s, a half-turn; Yuuri made him slowly lean into him, bringing him back up as the melody ended.

Victor was absolutely sure the composer, still holding him close, could hear his heartbeat in the silence of the studio. They probably could hear it back at the inn. He opened his mouth – and closed it again. Yuuri was still looking at him but not really _seeing_ him. He tapped a light finger on Victor's shoulder to a beat only he could hear. Thinking. Making music in his head.

And then his eyes finally focused on the man in his arms, on that face that was so close to his, and his eyes grew bigger. Yuuri let him go, his ears and face completely pink – the nerve. He had no right to be that adorable or shy after sweeping him off his feet like that. But then again, it was becoming apparent to Victor that Yuuri could pretty much do whatever he wanted with him, he’d just have to accept it at some point.

“I… I’m sorry, I…”

Victor’s only answer was raising an eyebrow, and Yuuri got even more flustered.

“I didn’t want to… I mean, I…” he bowed. “I’m so sorry!”

Victor took pity on him and laughed. “Don’t be, that was fun! I don’t know _where_ it came from, but we should do it more often. I keep forgetting you can dance, you know.”

Yuuri raised his head to gape at him. “How did you know I can dance?”

“I… saw you dance?”

“You _saw_ me? Where?!”

He straightened up, utterly taken aback by that information, and Victor stared.

Yuuri didn’t know about Victor watching him dance in Minako’s studio the night before, sure, but he _did_ know Victor had seen him dancing at the GP banquet. He shouldn’t be this shoc –

Wait.

_“Um, nice to meet you. Mr. Nikiforov.”_

The email, the call, the message that had never come.

_“None that matter”_

_“Picture a playboy. A man to whom love is nothing but a game, seduction just something to play at and win”_

What if the playboy had left town because he didn’t remember having played the game at all?

Oh god.

_“Yuuri is… not a great drinker.”_

Would it be too weird if he screamed right now? Probably. But oh boy, did he feel like it.

Yuuri was still waiting for an answer, so he improvised one:

“There is a, a picture. Of you. In a costume? At the inn.”

Not his most eloquent moment, but it’d have to do. The pink on Yuuri’s face turned to bright red and he groaned.

“Oh _god_ , I told my mom to put that picture away. Honestly… yeah, I… I used to dance, but that was a long time ago. Anyway, I… I’m sorry for the impromptu tango? I just wanted to see if… if what I was thinking for the piece was possible. I had an idea for it, so…” he left off, weakly.

So _that_ was what he was seeing while they were dancing. He’d been half dancing with him, half working the new piece in his head. When Victor heard certain songs he could immediately visualize a routine; Yuuri had simply done more or less the opposite: heard a new piece in a dance.

“And is it? Possible, I mean?”

Yuuri’s face relaxed a little. “Yes! I’ll… I’ll have to change a lot of things, but… I think I’ll… I think I’ll be able to give you what you want.”

Victor swatted away an inconvenient answer that came to his mind and smiled. “That’s great, then! Glad I could help.”

Yuuri smiled a little again and turned to the piano, mumbling “Let me take a look at _Agape_ and see…”

He sloppily looked through a pile of sheet music, looking for _Agape_ and brushing the others aside when he found it, leaving them on the floor where they’d fallen. Victor picked them up and reassorted them in a neat pile – if there was any specific order, Yuuri would have to sort it out later. He looked at the one on the top: the music notations meant very little to him, and this one had kanji at the title, so the whole thing was utterly incomprehensible.

A second glance made him pay more attention: the two kanji at the top… weren’t those the ones who formed Yuuri’s name?

Huh. Was that a piece about Yuuri?

 

~

 

“You’re getting better at this ‘waking up early’ thing, by the way. I’ll make you into an early bird in no time!”

Yuuri chuckled. “You and what army?”

Victor laughed way too loud, and a few heads on the street turned to look. The morning sun glistened on the ocean behind them, and the seagulls screeching and flapping their wings made for some pleasant background noise. It reminded Victor of St. Petersburg.

“You’re _really_ not a morning person, are you? Guess I’ll have to get used to staying up late then, if I want to keep up with you.”

“Pff, you can’t keep up with me, Nikiforov. You go to bed at the same time my father does!”

“Is that a challenge, _Katsuki_? I like those.”

“It was just a fact. But we can make it into a challenge, why not?”

“Fine, I bet I can learn to stay up as late as you, as naturally as you, in a week.”

“A week?!” Yuuri laughed and stood up from the bench. “You’re on! And what do I get when I win?”

A bit of Sassy Yuuri, a bit of Smiley Yuuri and a bit of Confident Yuuri, all rolled up in one right now. All his pieces seemed to fit better and mesh into one another more seamlessly, now that Victor looked at him from a different perspective.

“I don’t know, what do you want?”

Yuuri looked at him and opened his mouth – but Victor would never find out what Yuuri wanted, as all other sounds were suddenly drowned by an angry teenage voice screaming at him in Russian:

“Victor! _Finally_!!”

Impossible.

But unmistakable.

He closed his eyes for one second and turned to look: against all odds he was there, walking towards him as if ready to kill him, wearing his good old black hoodie and his tacky leopard print shoes.

Yuri Plisetsky was in Hasetsu.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I usually try to upload a new chapter either every Sunday or Monday - but I went out of town for the holidays here, so it kinda threw off my writing schedule. Sorry!
> 
> The title of this chapter came from [Jesse Cook's Breathing Below Surface](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_neUB2Xg7ZA) \- ever since I saw a tango being danced to it, it's one of the first pieces that come to my mind when I think of tango. And it expresses perfectly how I think Victor felt during their tango here.
> 
> Thank you to [PenelopeUlyssea](http://penelopedulysses.tumblr.com/) for the beta-reading: my Phichit and my punctuation police!
> 
> Once again, thank you to everyone who's been reading it and giving me their support! Feel free to talk to me over the comments or on tumblr! ^^


	5. Welcome to the Madness

“You _forgot_?!”

“Sorry! You know I’m forgetful, right?”

Had he looked sorry at all Yuri might’ve thought about not ripping him to shreds, but that laugh was much more than he could take.

“Yeah, I’m well aware! It doesn’t matter, a promise is a promise, we’re going back right now!”

He purposely ignored the Japanese man staring at him with huge eyes, and made a point of speaking in Russian directly to Victor – who just smiled blithely at him.

“We’re being rude, Yura, we should switch to English. Yuuri can’t understand us.”

The teenager just glared at Victor; he was all out of craps to give about whether that drunkard understood him or not. Yuuri Katsuki could drown right there in the ocean for all he cared, and he was certainly not switching to English.

“You promised to choreograph something for my senior debut, and you come to Japan instead?!”

The most infuriating thing about that whole conversation (which was _not_ going according to plan in the first place) was probably the fact that Victor’s smile didn’t fade in the slightest.

“I told Yakov exactly why I came here,” he answered in English, “didn’t he tell you?”

 _Exactly_ was hardly the word for the explanation he’d left for Yakov.

“Inspiration.” Yuri spat the word, still not switching languages. “That’s bullshit.”

“I came for his music!” Victor pointed cheerfully at the composer; Yuri didn’t even spare a glance at him and crossed his arms defiantly.

“I don’t give a shit about his music, let’s just go back to Russia already.”

Victor ignored him and turned to Yuuri:

“I’m sorry, Yuuri, where are my manners. This is my rink mate, Yuri Plisetsky.”

Why was Victor introducing them as if they’d never met before?

“The other Yuri” looked at him with a shy smile. Well, at least he seemed to be sober.

“Yes, of course. The Junior World Champion. Nice to meet you.”

 _Nice to meet you_?! What game was he playing now?!

 _The Junior World Champion_ , though.

He wasn’t gonna take the hand the other Yuri was offering, but fine, he could acknowledge him at least. He didn’t seem that much of a drunken menace now, in broad daylight.

“Yeah, hi,” he grumbled in English. The smile Victor gave him just for that made him immediately regret it.

“So Yura, how come Yakov let you come all by yourself?”

Silence.

Yuri desperately tried to think of a way around it. Damn it. Exactly the point he’d been hoping wouldn’t come up. It would’ve been one thing to simply not talk about it if Victor hadn’t thought to ask. But a direct question? He didn’t want to tell the truth, but he also despised lies. Lying was for the weak.

He shrugged and half-mumbled. “I didn’t tell Yakov I was coming.”

Victor’s smile disappeared at last. What took its place was something not nearly half as annoying and definitely more unheard of: he went completely still.

So still that the other Yuri looked at him with some concern. “V-Victor?”

Victor sighed and ran a hair through his hair, seeming suddenly deflated.

“Yuuri, I’m sorry, but do you mind if we cut our run short for the day and go back home? I got a couple of calls to make.”

“N-no, of course not! Let’s go.”

They both stood up from the bench, _finally_ , and Victor gestured for him to follow, walking fast and giving him a cold glance. Victor was rarely cold towards people, though Yuri had seen it happen before – just never to him.

“I’m calling Yakov when we get there, and then I’m booking you the first flight home.”

“Booking _us_ a flight home.”

“No, just you.”

He stopped. “You’re not going back?”

Victor came to a stop a few steps ahead, but didn’t answer him.

“Well, I guess we know now what _your_ promises are worth!”

He could tell Victor was getting annoyed; it was very subtle, but it was there, in that heavy sigh he was trying to contain. Yuri didn’t care.

“Yuri, you can’t just pack a bag and hop on a flight to Japan without telling anyone, that’s not how this works.”

“You did it.”

Victor finally looked at him again; he still didn’t look angry, but he did look indifferent. Which was an unmistakable sign. He spoke calmly.

“Yura, I’m 27, and I’m the only one responsible for myself. I can go wherever I like and there’s nothing Yakov can do about it. But _you_ are 15 and Yakov is your legal guardian. Your grandfather trusted him with you, and this is what you do?”

The thought of his grandfather sent a sharp pang of guilt through Yuri, but he hoped he’d kept a straight face well enough not to show it, defiant pose still intact.

“Besides,” Victor added with a sudden bright smile, which was an even worse sign, “you haven’t brought that many medals to Russia yet, what makes you think you’re worth this much trouble?”

Yuri looked at him, horrified. Damn. Victor was brutal sometimes.

He still tried to salvage whatever he could of his composure, though.

“No one’s as much trouble as you, you treat Yakov like shit.”

Victor gasped. “I do not!”

Out of the corner of his eye Yuri could see the other Yuri covering a smile with his hand.

“Yeah, you do!”

“Yeah, well, I’ve earned it. None of that changes the fact that you’re going home.”

“I’m not going anywhere until you keep your word!”

Victor scratched his head and looked at him, searching for something on his face.

“You really do want my choreography, don’t you?”

“Huh?! I don’t want your choreography, don’t be so full of yourself! But what kind of man are you if you’re not gonna keep your promises?”

Victor looked at him with a faint smile and a finger on his lips.

“Hmm, what a good question, Yura.”

If only it was possible to slap the condescension out of someone. Yuri started walking again, in what he hoped was the right direction to wherever they were going. The other two soon followed, but he didn’t even look at them.

Victor was _unbelievable_. Why did he have to go around making promises he had no intention of keeping? Yuri had been waiting all those years, kept his side of the bargain, been _counting_ on Victor, had _looked up t_ –

“He’s a got a point, though.”

That was so out of the blue he nearly turned around to look at the other Yuri (but reined himself in in time), while Victor’s astonishment was loud in the silence that followed that comment.

“…what?”

A throat being cleared. “I mean… if you made a promise…” His voice trailed off.

Yes, thank you! Even Japanese Yuri understood! Was that so hard?

“Yuuri,” he could hear the whine in Victor’s voice, why was he like that?, “you’re not suggesting I go back to Russia, are you?”

“No, I’m suggesting Yuri stay here for a while.”

“ _What now_?!” Yuri turned around so fast Maccachin actually bumped into him.

And to his horror, Victor was beaming.

 

~

 

He looked around the room and dropped his backpack on the bed, while Yakov shouted at Victor on the phone.

Were they really staying in that backwater city in goddamn Japan?

_And in the drunkard’s home??_

“Yura,” Victor whispered to him, “Yakov wants to know how you even managed to get a visa to Japan.”

“The visa I got for the SBC Cup in September. It’s still valid.”

“Ohhh. Smart!” He went back to the phone with a huge grin on his face.

 

~

 

Mari shook her head. “Two Yuris? That’s confusing. From now on, you’re Yurio!” She decided, pointing a finger at the boy.

“Yurio! I like it, it’s cute!” Victor laughed. “They should announce you in competitions like this! Yurio Plisetsky!”

“That’s not my name!”

“But she’s right: having two Yuris around _is_ confusing.”

The woman smiled (Japanese Yuri’s sister?) and left the room. Why was any of this happening?! At least the other Yuri had the decency to look embarrassed – someone understood how weird all of this was.

“Why can’t I be Yuri and he’ll be ‘Japanese Yuri’?”

“Yura, do you know what they call Japanese food in Japan?”

He rolled his eyes. “No, what?”

“Food!” Victor gave him that weird heart-shaped smile, as if he’d just told the funniest joke on Earth. Victor was many things, but funny was not one of them. “The same applies to Yuuri. Here, he’s not ‘Japanese Yuri’, just Yuuri. So you’re the one who gets a new name!”

The woman came back with the food, and the teenager looked at it suspiciously.

“What’s this?”

Japanese Yuri was suddenly by his side with stars in his eyes.

“That’s katsudon!”

“Kats- what?”

“Katsudon! It’s rice and egg and vegetables and pork cutlets, you’re gonna love it! It’s the best thing you’ll ever eat!”

How could anyone get that excited about food? It was just food. If it were pirozhki, sure, but other than that… “Jesus, why don’t you just marry it already.”

Japanese Yuri stuttered something he couldn’t be bothered to pay attention to, and cautiously had some of the kats-thing.

Oh.

Damn.

That was delicious _._

 

* * *

 

“So, do you have anything in mind for your short program?”

Yurio immediately crossed his legs in lotus position, staring at Victor excitedly, and Yuuri was suddenly reminded of just how young Yuri Plisetsky really was.

They talked in English for a while out of consideration for Yuuri, who was finishing tidying up the room for the new guest – but they eventually switched to Russian and Yuuri tuned them out.

Why were there so many Russians in his life all of a sudden?... Victor was already a handful (though far be it from Yuuri to complain), and Yuri didn’t seem to be much easier. If things continued that way, he wouldn’t bat an eye even if their coach Yakov showed up.

But then again, he’d been the one to suggest that Yuri stay, and he was still trying to figure out why.

Maybe it’d been the desperation he saw in the teenager. The sheer insistence in coming after Victor all by himself – he could try to pretend he didn’t idolize Victor all he wanted, but it was painfully obvious. Even Victor could tell. And how could he not sympathize with that?

[ _Or maybe you were afraid the boy would actually manage to convince Victor to go back to Russia._ ]

But that was a thing that was going to happen, right? Victor would eventually go back to Russia. He should be there now, in fact, the only reason he was in Japan was to wait for the piece Yuuri was composing. Once that was done…

“Katsudon!”

Yuuri looked around confused. Yurio and Victor were staring at him – the teenager glowering more than anything else.

“Did you… just call me ‘katsudon’?”

“Yeah, if I’m not getting called by my name, then neither are you!”

“Well,” Victor interposed, “katsudon is delicious, so...” And he winked at Yuuri, who could feel his face and neck burn instantly. Victor had to stop saying things like that when he obviously didn’t mean them.

“So Yuuri, I was just telling Yurio here –”

“That’s not my name!”

“… that since you’re composing something for me, I’m gonna give him _Agape_.”

Yuuri went still, and after a few seconds his voice came out really quiet. “But _Agape_ is your backup plan.”

“I don’t need a backup plan! I have full confidence in your new piece.”

Oh god.

Yuuri pressed one hand on his temple, the threat of a headache too real.

Had he known, he would’ve booked Yurio a flight to Russia himself.

Victor had no music or routine. Again.

There was only one week left in May, and the Grand Prix assignments would come out at the end of June. _June_. Next month. Victor’s first qualifier could be in October – if they had any luck, it’d be in November, but luck was just something Yuuri did not have a lot of these days.

Yurio’s voice snapped him out of it. “Wait. He’s still composing the new piece?”

“Yes, why?”

“I thought it was done already!” He turned to Yuuri. “Katsudon, you better get it done fast!”

Yuuri smiled at him a bit tiredly and then turned to Victor. “He’s funny, I like him.”

“I’m not funny, what the hell!”

Victor smiled back. “He _is_ , isn’t he?”

“Stop talking about me like I’m not here!”

“Oh!” Victor’s face lit up with a sudden thought. “I think I still have some pictures of him when he was younger! Ohhhh, you should see his haircut back then, wait a minute…” Victor unlocked his phone and started going through his albums with unrestrained glee. Yurio jumped and tried to take the phone from him but Victor simply kept him at bay with one long arm, while still browsing through the photos with his other hand. All the while chattering about Yurio’s old haircut, which Yuuri said he was _dying_ to see, and that it was alright if Victor didn’t have any pictures from back then, really, he was sure he could find some on the internet.

The boy finally gave up with a half-yell, half-growl and left the bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him – slamming it as much as possible, given it was a sliding door.

Yuuri and Victor exchanged glances and burst into laughter.

“Sorry about Yura! He… doesn’t have the best control over his temper yet,” Victor apologized between chuckles.

Yuuri smiled, but the welcome distraction that was Yurio was already forgotten. “Nah, that’s fine. But Victor… are you sure?”

“Yes! He really does have an awful temper! You know that during Worlds he –”

“I mean about _Agape_.”

Victor’s laugh gave way to a surprised look, and then a smile that just exuded confidence.

Yuuri never failed to surround himself with people who brimmed with confidence; amazing how none of it ever rubbed off on him.

Victor walked up to him with that smile, and _god_ it was so dazzling Yuuri froze for a second – and then the Russian was completely in his personal space, with one foot right between Yuuri’s feet and their thighs separated only by the thin fabric of their running pants.

His face was way, way too close. Yuuri dropped his gaze to the floor, only for Victor to delicately lift his chin and make him look at him again, hair falling over blue eyes that burned.

Softly, he ran his thumb over Yuuri’s bottom lip and Yuuri’s knees were no longer to be trusted, his insides suddenly molten.

“I trust your new piece completely, Yuuri. I can’t wait to see your take on passion.”

He was so close Yuuri was breathing in Victor’s hot breath more than anything else, his voice doing that thing again, going so low Yuuri’s heart started playing a presto agitato of its own.

“Ah… I…”

Stomps quickly approaching.

In two seconds Yuuri was as far away from Victor as the bedroom allowed, as if they’d been caught doing something they shouldn’t have.

[ _Weren’t you?_ ]

Victor blinked at him, but the only thing Yuuri could think of was to get out of the room - and he almost knocked Yurio down as the boy walked back into the room.

“Oy, watch it, Katsudon!”

“S-sorry!” he replied without looking at him, hurrying downstairs, and in less than a minute he was safely hidden in his studio again.

Breathe in, breathe out.

That didn’t mean anything.

Victor was just… friendly.

Yeah, that was it. Friendly. Flirty friendly.

He couldn’t focus on that, right? He had a piece to compose.

Well, compose... Adjust might be a better word. “ _Extreme Makeover: Music Edition._ ”

Yuuri exhaled heavily and sat down at the computer. He didn’t remember the last time he’d spent so much time doing research and it was more tiring than it seemed. But it was also exciting.

The pressure still weighed down on him, it was Victor Nikiforov’s entire skating season (a season that, if rumors were to be believed, just might be his last) hanging exclusively on his music – something that had never been a problem in his daydreams. But that was the difference between dreaming of something and living it, he supposed.

Still, even with the pressure, the excitement was slowly taking over now that he had a clearer idea of what he wanted to do. The conversation they’d had the night before had been like someone abruptly turning on the lights after you’ve spent some 10 minutes stumbling around the kitchen in the dark because you didn’t want to wake anyone up.

[ _Did the_ conversation _help or did the dancing?_ ]

Yuuri groaned and facepalmed; had that been really necessary? Why, why had he tangoed with Victor?! What had gone through his head?

Nothing, obviously. He either did and said things before thinking, or thought way too much about it and missed the opportunity to do or say what he wanted.

In his defense, the tango had helped, and Victor hadn’t seemed too disconcerted by it, which was good. Or… not: what if the tango had convinced him that Yuuri was up for all that friendly flirting? Oh god, he was so very not, that was the last thing he needed. Functioning normally with Victor merely existing in the vicinity was hard enough as it was, sometimes it took all the focus he had, but when he added the winking and the touching and the heart-shaped smiles and the “Yuuuuri!” and the voice… those always made him think, just for a heartbeat, that maybe, _maybe_ Victor might… what? Like him? The thought was so absurd that it never lasted for more than a second.

[ _Having your idol come after you in Japan to ask for your music is not enough for you. Noooo, you want him to have a_ crush _on you. You’re pathetic._ ]

He pinched the bridge of his nose: it wasn’t that, they barely knew each other; Victor was insanely handsome, yes, but also… just insane? He huffed a small laugh: yeah, Victor definitely had a couple of loose screws (and Yuri Plisetsky was not far behind. Was it a Russian thing?). He wore nonsense as if it’d been tailored for him, it suited him. He was everything that was nonsensical and magnetic.

But all Yuuri really wanted was simply to make music that was worthy of becoming one of Victor Nikiforov's routines. To know that his music had inspired Victor enough to take another season by storm. And then maybe Yuuri could look at himself in the mirror again.

He sighed: if only Victor would not… stay so close to him.

Well, Yurio was sure to keep Victor busy for some time (he had the feeling Yurio would be keeping everyone busy for a while), so he could work in peace for the time being.

Yuuri opened some folders and spent a long time listening to dozens of songs, then on to youtube and more searching. Carlos Gardel, Astor Piazzolla, Carlos di Sarli, Gotan Project, Orquestra Típica Fernandez Fierro, Bajofondo – from the 20’s to the 2010’s, he listened to everything he knew and more.

Hours went by before the studio fell into silence again and the leaned back in his chair. He tapped his fingers on the table frantically, looking at the screen but seeing far beyond it: should he contact Ogino for lyrics again? The lyrics for _Agape_ wouldn’t work for this, obviously, the subject matter was something else entirely.

But were lyrics even necessary?

The dance of seduction didn’t need words.

He blinked: that thought had caught him off-guard. What had put that into his head?

But no, no lyrics; music was already a language in itself.

He stood up and started going towards the piano, but then stopped. Could he really pull off seduction with a piano?

 

* * *

 

“Did you get that?”

“Yeah, I think I got it.”

Victor nodded. Yurio always picked up choreography really fast, that had never been an issue – the problem had always been making him follow instructions.

Not that he could say anything about it.

Nevertheless, he was finding the boy surprisingly easy to work with, Yurio seemed more than eager to do what Victor was telling him to, which was definitely new; back at their home rink he didn’t listen to anyone, including Victor and Yakov. Now, however, Yurio was all (gruffy) obedience.

“Great! This is the routine I had for myself. We’ll have to adapt for you, of course.”

“What?! We don’t have to adapt!”

“Oh? So you can land a quad flip now?” He asked with a smile.

Yurio looked like he might answer that, but bit his lip and said nothing. Victor went on:

“Our stamina is different, too, you won’t be able to have all the difficult jumps in the second half,” Yurio opened his mouth to retort but Victor beat him to it, “at least not now. You’re not even used to doing quads in competition yet.”

“ _Isallyakovsfault_ ,” the boy mumbled.

“And you still need to work on your step sequence.”

Victor bit back another smile: he could see how physically painful it was for Yurio to listen to all that and not reply. He really was trying.

And he also needed to hear something he rarely did from Yakov.

“Besides, we definitely have to incorporate a Biellman in there. No one does it quite like you.”

Yurio looked up at him with huge eyes – and in a second it was gone, his eyes back to sullen. But Victor had seen it alright.

He clapped and smiled: “So that’s it for today, Yurio! Let’s go back!”

“That’s not my n – what do you mean ‘go back’?? I haven’t even skated yet!”

“You’re jet lagged, go back to the inn and rest properly. Skating starts tomorrow.”

“I’m not jet lagged, I can skate now!”

“Sorry! My choreography, my rules!”

 

~

 

There was no Yuuri around at the inn, so Victor went to the studio; when he got there, though, he was met with a sign hanging from the doorknob: “Please do not disturb”.

Somehow, that felt directed towards him more than anyone else, as he seemed to be the only one who went after Yuuri in his own studio.

…Should he not be doing that?

That could be it, Yuuri was such a private person. He’d have to apologize to him when he showed up again for dinner.

Which did not happen.

He and Yurio had dinner along with other guests and at 10:00pm he sent the boy to bed; he stayed behind, watching some dramas on TV he did not understand a single word of, but that were entertaining nonetheless.

11:00 pm, midnight. No Yuuri.

Wasn’t he going to eat?!

He was avoiding him, wasn’t he?

Maccachin snored loudly next to him and he sighed. Time go to bed.

 

~

 

Going on their morning run and bumping into Yuuri on his way to bed; choreographing for Yurio; coming back for lunch, “do not disturb”; practicing; walking around town with Macca and Yurio; coming back home, “do not disturb”; onsen, dinner, no Yuuri, bed.

Every day for a week.

At least they’d been taking pictures and selfies galore – which had prompted many websites to spout a whole bunch of theories as to what Victor Nikiforov and Yuri Plisetsky were doing in a small town in Japan, away from their home rink. They’d broken with Yakov Feltsman and found a new coach, Nikiforov was retired and training Plisetsky in secret, they were on vacation, they had joined a cult, they were filming a commercial, they were after a choreographer, they were in a romantic getaway (which, really now, Yurio was 15, what were those people even thinking).

But he still wished he could be going around town and taking pictures and reading outrageous gossip with Yuuri. Sassy Yuuri would have lots to say about the ‘romantic getaway’ theory.

 

~

 

He watched from the sidelines as the boy skated, offering comments here and there.

“Yurio, do you think he’s upset with me?”

“What, who?”

“Yuuri.”

The boy scowled. “Who cares?”

“I do, obviously.”

“Yeah, you care _too_ much! I can’t believe you dropped everything to come after him in a different _continent_.”

“Your free leg’s lazy.”

Growl.

“And I didn’t ‘drop everything’, but I can’t have a routine without music, can I?”

His comment was received with nothing but a scoff. Yeah, he knew it sounded weak, and he knew what it looked like to everyone who had been there at the banquet last year: Victor Nikiforov had left everything behind to go after some guy he had a crush on.

He’d spent the last 20 years doing very little other than skating - his whole life had been dedicated to it –, but people still thought he’d turn his back to everything he’d built over some infatuation.

Georgi had sent him a message saying “There is no true love, my friend, tread this road wisely.” (Georgi’s heartaches were the _worst_ .) Mila had sent him an audio message that consisted of “wooohooo” and “go get him, tiger!”. Not even Chris had helped: “I’m not surprised, _mon ami_ , his pole dancing skills could turn any man’s head.”

Clearly no one thought too highly of him or his judgement.

Only Yakov seemed to know it wasn’t about that. Sure, he’d called him “irresponsible”, “selfish”, “spoiled” and so many other things he’d tuned out after the first five minutes, but he at least knew Victor wouldn’t put his career in jeopardy because of an affair.

(He only wished there was an affair to speak of.)

What Yakov did not understand was why the top skater of Russia suddenly needed a very specific Japanese composer to have inspiration. Why wouldn’t any other composer do? Or songs that already existed? Why did he have to wait for the music in Japan?

And Victor did not have a good enough explanation for him. How could he explain it in words that Yakov would understand?

_“I don’t have anything else to give. I’m not enough for myself anymore.”_

That made sense to him, and only him. It would never make sense to anyone else.

“That was under-rotated.”

Yurio stopped to catch his breath. “Yeah, I know!”

“Take ten, Yura.”

“Fine…” The boy sat at the bleachers and grabbed some water; meanwhile, Victor took the rink and started skating pieces of an old routine. He needed to spend his piled up energy somehow.

“I don’t know what you want from him anyway, that guy’s a drunkard!”

“He’s not a drunkard, Yura,” he answered not really paying attention, the Lilac Fairy waltz playing clear and loud in his head, the image of Yuuri dancing in the silence too vivid.

Did he, Victor, have that much life in his skating? Or had he been only emulating life all those years?

“Do you really think he’s gonna compose something good enough for you to skate to? That aquatic piece was just a fluke.”

Victor finally stopped and brushed the hair out of his eyes, puzzled. “Yura… you do realize he composed _Agape_ , right?”

Yurio’s eyes widened. “What? I thought… you said it was your backup plan, I thought it was someone else’s music!”

Victor shook his head. “Nope, it’s Yuuri’s. He composed it for me.”

“But… isn’t that what you came here for? Why are you giving it to me?!”

“Because it’s not the kind of music I want to skate to this season.”

Yurio crossed his arms. “So you’re giving me the music you don’t think is good enough for you?”

“I’m giving you gorgeous music that I think suits you.”

“It doesn’t suit me, it’s… too… too…”

“Too…?”

“Pretty!”

Victor tried his best not to smile: Yuri had one of the prettiest skating styles he’d ever seen, but he’d kill him if he ever said that. Yuri looked like an ice fairy, but wanted to be seen as a warrior.

And rightly so: no one fought harder than Yuri. The problem was that he wanted everything now.

“So you think _Agape_ is pretty, then?”

He watched the boy squirm between standing by what he’d said and taking it back; he’d just praised Yuuri’s music, which went directly against his number one rule: never seeming impressed by anything or anyone.

“It’s… fine, I guess,” he mumbled. “But I still think you should just forget about it and get some other music. The season’s about to start anyway!”

Victor beamed at him. “You’re just mad because he beat you at the dance-off!”

“I can’t believe you gave him that win!”

“Yura, it was a break dance-off, and you were doing ballet.”

 

~

 

It was already partially dark when they arrived at the inn, with a video of Yurio skating _Agape_ ready to be sent to Yakov. Their coach would still have adjustments and suggestions to make regarding the technical components, but the choreography itself was done.

When they walked by the studio, however, Yurio slapped his arm.

“The sign’s gone.”

Victor looked. The door was closed, as usual, but the “do not disturb” sign was not there anymore.

Should he go in?

Could he go in?

“Why don’t we go in?”

Victor stared at Yurio. When had he acquired the ability to read Victor’s mind?!

Yurio must’ve seen the surprise in Victor’s eyes; he shrugged and looked away.

“You’ve been moping all week because that Katsudon was holed up in here.”

“I don’t mope!”

“You don’t do anything else!”

The door burst open and the two skaters jumped, Yuuri almost running into them – but when he saw them his whole face lit up.

“You’re here! Great! Come in!”

He pulled Yurio into the studio despite his protests, and smiled at Victor: “Come!”

Once inside Yurio looked all around the studio, trying (and failing) not to look curious about absolutely everything in there. Victor closed the door and slowly sat on the couch, watching a hyperactive Yuuri going here and there – opening files in the computer, getting something from the back, sorting some music sheet on the piano, briefly but happily explaining things to Yurio (“oh, that’s a cajón!”).

The boy turned around and looked at Yuuri with more attention.

“You’re a mess.”

“Really? I’m sorry,” Yuuri answered a bit absent-mindedly, not at all concerned.

Victor considered the comment; from an objective point of view, it was true: Yuuri looked tired, had no glasses on, hair a mess, one sleeve rolled up and the other not.

But all he could see was a flushed face, eyes that sparkled and a smile that could light up an entire city in a blackout. Excited Yuuri might be a mess, but he was an adorable one.

It took him a while to realize that the adorable mess was now holding a violin.

“Ok, so,” Yuuri cleared his throat, “this is kinda like a draft. I’m still gonna, like, add things to it, but this is the general idea, and I thought it would be better to show it to you before going to Fukuoka, or, you know, before actually finishing it, because the last time –”

“What are you talking about?” Yurio asked, seeming too baffled to be annoyed, for once.

Yuuri looked at him as if the boy had just asked him what was 2 + 2 and Victor offered his translation services (he wasn’t so fluent in Yuurish, but he’d been studying for a bit longer than Yurio, at least):

“He’s talking about the new piece. Right, Yuuri?”

“Yeah!”

“Oh.” Yurio frowned. “Wait, why are you going to Fukuko?!”

“Fukuoka,” Yuuri corrected, enunciating the name slowly. “That’s where I get my music recorded when it’s not for the studio.”

“What studio?!”

“The animation studio I work for?”

 _“_ What?!”

“So the piece is almost done, is that it, Yuuri?” Victor stepped in again, as the conversation had started to veer into crazy territory.

Yuuri beamed at him, and Victor stared. A small part of him wondered if he was blushing too obviously, but most of him just wanted to make Yuuri beam like that over and over. Surely being that endearing was illegal somewhere?

“Yes! Like I said: it’s not finished, but I thought I’d give you a… a preview? I’ll add more instruments to it, but if you like it, I can contact the recording studio and the musicians tomorrow and get everything going! So I recorded the basic accompaniment…” he walked over to the computer and pointed at it, as if the other two could actually see the music there, “…and I was going to record the second violin too, but since you guys are here, I can just play it for you.”

Yuuri would… play the violin?

Yuuri could play the violin.

Did he have any idea of what he was doing to Victor?

He covered his eyes with one hand and rubbed them a little. He had to focus.

“Oy, Victor?”

“Are... are you okay?”

He sat up straight once again, Victor Nikiforov Smile™ on.

“Yes, I’m fine! I was just… thinking of something, never mind.” He added excitedly, “So you’re going to play now?”

“Yeah, if you guys want to hear it?”

“Definitely!”

“Whatever.”

Despite his feigned indifference, Yurio sat next to Victor and waited.

Yuuri clicked on “play” and put the violin in position.

Victor expected something slow like _Agape_ and _A Night of Winters_ , or maybe something that slowly rose in a crescendo, like _The Nereid’s Call_. Something with gravitas.

His expectations were shattered in a matter of seconds when Yuuri’s playfully [fast violin](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ArI2r2C2IT4) started telling its story. He played with his eyes closed, while Victor could barely blink.

Could barely breathe.

Yuuri was completely, absurdly comfortable playing. It was like the _Stammi Vicino_ video all over again, it was watching him dance _The Lilac Fairy_ in a silent dance studio where Yuuri was the only source of light.

(And the melody. It was familiar, had he heard it before? It was fast, fun, light, exquisite, like being in a party where everyone was dancing.)

His whole body just seemed to relax, with muscle memory taking over and every instinct in him saying “excuse me, allow me”, erasing every one of Yuuri’s insecurities from existence for a brief spell.

“Spell” being just the right word.

(It was like spinning around the room and laughing in someone’s arms.)

Yuuri didn’t look, didn’t see anything, keeping his eyes shut and feeling the music wash over him – or rather, it was the music that poured out of him, as if he were far too small to contain it.

(Like the first time you met someone and there was just something about them that made you turn your head. Like being light-headed from drinking.)

A weeping note and Yuuri shut his eyes more tightly for that one split second, as if he himself couldn’t bear the feelings of that note, and then going back to his soft expression.

(Fun and deceptively light; it was oscillating between what you should do and what you want to do, like a dangerous dance.)

His body swayed gently, his movements following those of the music; even when playing Yuuri danced. Half-lidded eyes that made Victor’s breath catch in his throat – and then they were closed again.

(It was debauched.)

His movements got more intense as the climax approached, and the music ended in an abrupt, irrevocable halt.

(Like being used and left behind.)

In the silence that followed Victor could only stare, vaguely aware that Yurio next to him was sitting perfectly still as well.

Yuuri opened his eyes and looked straight at Victor, clumsily wiping his brow with the back of his bow hand; he looked from him to Yurio, away from them both, and then back to Victor, with a very timid smile.

“That’s… it.”

Victor smiled brightly back at him. “It’s perfect.”

Yuuri’s stuttered and flailed a little, still holding the violin and the bow. “N-no, please, I… I know it’s not, but… well, it’s… at least…”

But Victor was having none of the stuttering this time; he leaned forward on the couch. “It’s exactly what I wanted, Yuuri, thank you!”

Yuuri’s eyes went wide at that. “A-are you sure? I can rework whatever you don’t –”

“I’m sure. This is what I want.”

“That’s _Agape_.” Yurio said, startling the other two with the unexpected vehemence of his comment. But then Yuuri gave him a pleased smile.

“Nicely spotted, Yurio! Yes, it’s the same melody but with a different arrangement and tempo, since the message is completely different. It’s like a companion piece to _Agape_.”

“Hmm. Victor, I’m going to the onsen,” the boy answered, standing up and leaving, as if that whole conversation were an exercise in futility. But before he left he stopped at the door and turned to glare at Yuuri.

“And you! Eat!” On that note, he left.

Well, would you look at that.

Yuri Plisetsky was worried about someone.

Victor smiled at the thought and went back to the conversation.

“What did you call this piece, then?”

“Um, I thought of… well, since it’s the same melody, and kind of the same subject – but, like, from a different perspective, they’re really like two sides of the same c-”

“Yuuri. What did you call this piece?” Victor repeated the question gently but firmly. If he were to let him Yuuri would ramble for days, he knew that much.

“Ah, um. _On Love: Eros._ ”

Victor processed that for two seconds and nodded slowly. That was…

“Brilliant.”

“Ah! No, um… I just… thought it made sense?”

“It does. It really does. Yuuri, your music is something else.”

Yuuri turned his back to him to put away the violin in the case, but he could still see his ears turning pink. Watching him blush was Victor’s new favorite hobby.

“And I didn’t know you could play the violin!”

“Oh! Yeah, I, I can. I mean, not like the piano, it’s not my expertise, but… yeah.”

“So why violins for _Eros_ , then?”

Yuuri’s eyes widened and he waved his hands. “No, don’t worry, when we record it there’ll be better violinists playing it, like, professional violinists!”

Victor shook his head and smiled. “No, I mean, why did you choose to compose a piece that revolves around the violin, if you think you’re better at the piano?”

Yuuri bit the inside of his cheeks, thinking.

“Well, I… you wanted something about seduction, and… the violin is the most, um, seductive instrument there is? So… I don’t play it so well, but I thought the piano just… wouldn’t do.”

Victor hummed, tapping his fingers on his knees and looking at him. He didn’t know the first thing about playing a violin, but he knew a thing or two about Katsuki Yuuri.

“You’re much better at the violin than you think you are.”

Yuuri opened his mouth to protest, but Victor stood up and walked over to the piano, speaking before the other could get a coherent word out.

“You’re right though: the violin _is_ seductive. But for me,” he touched the piano and caressed it very lightly, “the piano is the loveliest instrument there is.”

 

* * *

 

Yurio threw himself on his bed after dinner with his phone in hands.

 

**Yuuri Katsuki**

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

(Redirected from Yuri Katsuki)

 

 **Yuuri Katsuki** (勝生 勇利, _Katsuki Yūri_ ) is a Japanese composer and pianist known for his scores for films produced by Studio Ghibli.

 

**1 Early Life**

**2 Career**

**3 Works**

**3.1 Television**

**3.2 Theatrical releases**

**3.3 Other works**

**4 Awards**

**5 Personal Life**

**6 References**

**7 External Links**

 

**Early Life**

Yuuri Katsuki was born in Hasetsu, Saga Prefecture, Kyushu, Japan, where his family owns and operates the last bathhouse remaining in town.

 

**Career**

**Works**

 

**Awards**

_Main article:_ _List of awards and nominations received by Yuuri Katsuki_

Yuuri Katsuki has earned two Japan Academy Awards, three Tokyo Anime Awards, two Anime Grand Prix and one Animation Kobe.

 

Yurio frowned, getting angrier by the second, and clicked on the link.

 

**List of awards and nominations received by Yuuri Katsuki**

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

This is a list of awards and nominations for composer Yuuri Katsuki. Katsuki has been recognized for his work in film and television.

 

**1 Film Work**

**1.1 Academy Awards**

        **1.2 Annie Awards**

**1.3 Golden Globe Awards**

**1.4 Japan Academy Awards**

**1.5 Saturn Awards**

**1.6 Tokyo Anime Award**

**2 Television**

**2.1 Anime Grand Prix**

**2.2 Animation Kobe**

**2.3 Tokyo Anime Award**

 

Film Work

**4 awards** out of 11 nominations

 

**Academy Awards**

**Year** **Category** **Nominated Work** **Result**

2016            Best Original Song               “A Night of Winters”,          Nominated

                                                               from _The Flying Palace_

 

2016            Best Original Score              _The Flying Palace_ Nominated

 

**Annie Awards**

**Year** **Category** **Nominated Work** **Result**

2016            Annie Award for                   _The Flying Palace_                Nominated

                    Music in a Feature

                    Production              

 

**Golden Globe Awards**

**Year** **Category                             Nominated Work** **Result**

2016            Best Original Song              “A Night of Winters”,           Nominated

                                                              from _The Flying Palace_

 

2016            Best Original Score              _The Flying Palace_                 Nominated

 

**Japan Academy Awards**

**Year** **Category**                               **Nominated Work** **Result**

2016            Outstanding                         _The Flying Palace_ Won

                    Achievement

                    in Music

 

2015            Outstanding                        _Nighttime and Daybird_         Won

                    Achievement

                    in Music

 

**Saturn Awards**

**Year** **Category**                             **Nominated Work** **Result**

2016            Saturn Award                     _The Flying Palace_ Nominated

                    For Best Music

 

2015            Saturn Award                     _Nighttime and Daybird_ Nominated

                    For Best Music

 

**Tokyo Anime Awards**

**Year** **Category**                           **Nominated Work** **Result**

2016            Best Music                        _The Flying Palace_       Won

 

2015            Best Music                       _Nighttime and Daybird_ Won

 

Television Work

      **4 awards** out of 5 nominations

 

**Anime Grand Prix**

**Year** **Category**                           **Nominated Work** **Result**

2014            Best Song                        “If You Find”, from               Won

                                                            _Spice and Candy_

 

2013             Best Song                       “The Carousel of                  Won

                                                           Worlds", from

_On the Run!!_

**Animation Kobe**

**Year** **Category**                         **Nominated Work** **Result**

2014            Best Theme Song            “If You Find”, from              Won

                                                            _Spice and Candy_

 

**Tokyo Anime Award**

**Year** **Category**                          **Nominated Work**      **Result**

2014            Best Music                     “If You Find”, from               Won

                                                           _Spice and Candy_

 

2013             Best Music                    "The Carousel of                 Nominated

                                                         Worlds", from

_On the Run!!_

 

Yurio closed the Wikipedia page and started scrolling down Tumblr, liking every cat picture or vine on his dashboard. But not even that could fully distract him from his annoyance.

He’d always thought the kind of person who annoyed him the most were people like that Canadian guy, Jean-something, who’d gotten bronze last year at the GP: people who thought way too highly of themselves and wouldn’t stop bragging about their every achievement. Victor had ten times as many medals as that guy and didn’t say a word about it. The same went for Giacometti: he was always on a podium, but did he brag about it? No. They simply knew they were good and that was it. Why couldn’t everyone be like that?

But Yurio had just found something he hated even more than poor bragging rights: people who were _good_ , who were naturally talented and refused to believe it.

God, Katsudon was infuriating.

Moron.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, guys! My intention is to update weekly, but work got in the way... *sighs* 
> 
> Once again, thank you so much for your wonderful comments, they give me life!
> 
> And thanks, as usual, to my faithful beta reader! ^^


	6. Through the doors and past the guards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Thank you once again to all who have been reading, leaving kudos and commenting! It's the best encouragement I could get, and you guys are the best!
> 
> 2\. I'm sorry these chapters keep getting longer... It's only when you're actually writing that you realize you have to write a whole bunch of stuff before you can really get to that specific scene you want, ugh.
> 
> 3\. HUGE thanks to [slightlied](http://archiveofourown.org/users/slightlied/pseuds/slightlied) ([forovnix](https://forovnix.tumblr.com/)), who is extremely patient and helps me with music stuff when I need (i.e., always)!!! Much of what I'm doing wouldn't be possible without her - who, btw, has [one of the best victuri fics ever](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9538889/chapters/21569345), and what are you doing if you haven't read it yet?
> 
> 4\. Thanks as usual to my very patient, very dedicated beta-reader [PenelopeUlyssea](https://penelopedulysses.tumblr.com/)!

“Yuuuuriiiii!”

No sounds came from the bedroom. Victor knocked lightly again, still no answer.

Yurio shoved his hand aside and banged on the door. “Katsudon, get up!!”

A thud, steps, some clattering, a thump and an _ouch_ , more steps and the door opened to reveal a very wrinkled Yuuri, rubbing his eyes with a fist; he looked like a small child.

Yurio frowned. “Jesus, learn to set up an alarm!”

“Sorry… snooze button…”

Victor just chuckled. “That’s okay. Are you still going with us?”

“Yeah, I am. Just let me…” He walked back into the bedroom and got his glasses from his nightstand, then took a look at his phone. He mumbled something about hitting the snooze button a few times but Yurio paid no attention, they’d been through the exact same thing the day before. And the one before that too.

When Victor had suggested that they invite Yuuri for their morning run now that his sleeping hours were more or less the same as theirs, Yurio had been surprised. Surely he wouldn’t be able to keep up with them? But the image of a semi-naked Yuuri sustaining all of his own weight _and_ Christophe Giacometti’s at a 90° angle to the dance pole with nothing but his arms’ strength came back to him and he nodded. Yeah, he could probably keep up.

What he could clearly not do was wake up on time; seriously, it was not _that_ hard! And if he was just going to wake up late every day, saying “sorry” was meaningless.

So Yurio didn’t bother listening to what he was saying; instead, his eyes fell on Victor, leaning his head against the threshold and looking at Katsudon with the sappiest face ever.

Pfff. Inspiration. Right. Victor was so obvious.

 

~

 

“Sorry… my knee. But, um, you guys can…”

Victor smiled at Yurio. “I’ll stay here with him, Yurio, you can keep going and then come back!”

He shrugged. “Fine,” and turned around without a word. It was not like he wanted to sit down and _talk_ anyway, he had better things to do.

Katsudon yelled after him: “Turn back when you reach the train tracks!”

Yeah, yeah, he knew that.

…Ok, fine, maybe he _didn’t_ know that. He gave him a vague thumbs up without looking back.

While he ran he kept glancing to his right, at the ocean glimmering under the morning sun as far as the eye could see. Here and there a few weather-beaten fishermen were leaving the seashore already, gathering their equipment and the fish they’d caught, laughing and talking in that language that still sounded so otherworldly to him. He’d asked Yuuko to teach him a few basic polite words, such as “good morning”, “please” and “thank you”, but they still didn’t quite roll off his tongue. Even so, the Katsukis always seemed so happy when he said them, it wouldn’t hurt to keep at it (though he was pretty sure that old hag Minako had laughed at his pronunciation one day, so no more Japanese speaking in front of _her_ ).

Yuuko was always happy to teach him new things, she was nice; her husband was way too loud, but pretty decent too. All in all, Hasetsu was not half bad. The only problem was Victor being absurd about Katsudon’s music.

About Katsudon in general.

 _God_ , could Victor have any less chill? When it came to that guy, Victor was more of a giant puppy than Maccachin, honestly.

(He ran past one last fisherman, one who was always there when they ran, and he wished Yurio a good morning with an open smile. Yurio answered with a shaky “ohayou” and a nod.)

The thing was that Yurio had gotten _used_ to Victor over the years. Used to seeing him skating, choreographing, choosing music, planning jump compositions; used to seeing him practicing after hours, when he thought everyone else had already gone home (and didn’t know Yurio was watching him from behind a corner), putting on and taking off the costumes that dazzled the rest of the world. He’d been in awe of him for the first year or so, but it had soon slipped into routine and annoyance (Victor on ice was majestic, yes, but Victor off the ice was just a royal pain in the ass).

And because Yurio was used to him, he hadn’t noticed, hadn’t seen the emptiness in Victor’s storytelling, not until they were back home after the GP. On the first day of practice Victor had simply started skating _Stammi Vicino_ without music, without a word, without breaking the flow, as if he was seeing something no one else was - as if he skated for someone who wasn’t there - while everyone else at the rink seemed to have forgotten what breathing was like. And for the first time in a couple of years Yurio was hit again by the feeling that Victor didn’t need a shiny costume, dramatic music or historically difficult quads to be fascinating. There he was, skating in the silence, wearing simple practice clothes, his hair a bit disheveled, and it was just as magical.

(Yurio could see the tracks in the distance already, the sound of a train coming vaguely infiltrating the morning. He slowed down a bit.)

On that day Yurio had realized he hadn’t seen that magic in a while. He’d been so blinded by Victor’s effortless and flawless technique that he’d forgotten he hadn’t been _moved_ by his performance for some time. It was like some broken cog inside Victor had been put back in place and he was finally functioning properly again.

(Yurio reached the train tracks and stopped for a minute, drinking from his water bottle and watching the train that had just passed get smaller with each second. Even the trains in Hasetsu seemed more peaceful than the ones in St. Petersburg or Moscow, and it all seemed to fit Katsudon somehow. He turned around and started running back.)

Victor reminded him of the ballerina in his music box.

That old wooden box was the only thing of his mother’s that Yuri had allowed himself to hold on to. When you wound it up, it opened to reveal a tiny iridescent white ballerina twirling to _The Blue Danube_. She’d spin round and round, lost in her little world and dancing for herself – until she started slowing down, the spins losing momentum and the tune gradually becoming something ghastly that could never be said to be _The Blue Danube_ , and it all finally came to a stop and silence.

Victor was the ballerina, skating to the ghost of his own tune and unable to wind up the music box he was stuck to. But on that first day back, as he skated _Stammi Vicino_ , it’d been like the ballerina had been wound up all the way again, and the dancing begun anew.

Just _how_ close to a stop Victor had been was something he’d never ask.

(He could see the two of them now, still sitting on that bench. Yurio slowed down to a trot, and then a walk.)

Back then, he’d wondered what had operated that change in Victor, what had made him seem more like himself again and brought his magic back.

(For some reason he didn’t even want to know, Katsudon was on the ground, being overpowered by Maccachin and having his face mercilessly licked. On the bench, Victor laughed.)

He wondered no more.

When was the last time he’d heard him laugh?

 

~

 

It was the middle of the afternoon when Yurio went back to the inn by himself, earphones blasting music and duffel bag on one shoulder, having left Victor at the Ice Castle working on his own short program. To his surprise, he saw Katsudon sitting outside his studio, with his back against the door and his head tipped back as if he were taking in the sunlight, his eyes closed.

Either Yurio walked like a cat or Katsudon was really distracted, because he _jumped_ when the boy gave him a light kick on one of his legs.

“Oy,” he said, taking one of the earphones off.

“Hi Yurio, sorry!”

What was he apologizing _for_ , Yurio was the one who had snuck up on him. He spouted sorries as easily and unthinkingly as Victor landed quad flips, it was outrageous.

“What are you doing outside? Photosynthesis?”

Japanese Yuri chuckled at the joke, and it wasn’t as annoying as when Victor did it.

“I was working. Well, I am. I _was_.”

“Which one _is it_?!”

“I was, I was! I’m going nowhere with the piece I’m working on, so… I thought I’d take a break.”

Then he frowned. “Yurio, what are you listening to? It’s so… _loud_.”

Yurio shrugged. “It’s a song I like, I wanted to…” he stopped. Why was he telling him this, that was none of Katsudon’s business. He’d probably tell him the song was horrible anyway, like Yakov had.

Except that the idea of Yuuri saying that seemed off to him. For all his flaws – and dear _god_ were there plenty of them –, being judgemental didn’t seem to be one of them.

“I wanted it for my free skate, but Yakov says I can’t,” he grumbled.

Katsudon’s eyes widened and he smiled. “Really? Can I listen to it?”

“Ah. Sure,” Yurio replied, a little surprised at the interest. He got the other earphone out, ready to give him his phone, but Yuuri had gotten up and was already opening the door to the studio.

“Come in!”

A little puzzled, Yurio followed him in and threw himself on the couch, watching Katsudon sit at the computer and open a new tab.

“What’s the name of the song?”

“Uh, _Welcome to the Madness_.”

Lying down on the couch, he heard more typing and clicking, and in a few seconds the sound of a guitar filled the room completely. He sat up in a flash.

“Yeah, that one! Isn’t it awesome?!”

Yuuri tilted his head, thoughtful. “It’s cool, but…  fast. Wouldn’t it be tiring? Like, you… you’d barely have time to breathe.”

He shrugged. “I could do it. I’m fast!”

“I know, I’ve seen you skate. But this would leave you exhausted for the second half of the routine. If you’re skating for points… better to use something that can showcase all of your strengths, right?”

Yurio stared at him. Behind all the stammering and useless apologizing, Katsudon _knew_ his stuff. He kept forgetting that.

Katsudon was right, of course. Yakov and Victor had used the very same argument (with way more words and technical jargon, but the gist was the same), but it was still frustrating. It was as if no one thought he could pull it off.

Yuuri shifted uneasily in the chair under Yurio’s silent stare, and gave him a small shrug.

“You can always use it for an exhibition, though, where it’s just… you, having fun.” He smiled a bit. “You know, for when you climb that podium in December? You gotta have a routine for the gala exhibition.”

 _When_.

He got up from the couch and walked around the studio with his hands buried in his pockets and in a seemingly aimless fashion, but which was actually calculated so as not to show Katsudon his face. It was only when he managed to get his grin under control that he turned around, though he still had no idea what to say.

So he said the first thing that popped into his head.

“If you know so much, why don’t you compose something for _my_ free skate, then?” It sounded almost like a dare.

“…What? Me?”

Yurio just shrugged and didn’t answer, trying to look indifferent to what Yuuri thought or had to say about the subject. It had been something stupid to say anyway, better to just drop it.

He diverted. “What did you say this was?” He asked, touching a wooden box with his right foot.

“A cajón!”

The name sounded foreign to him, and by the way Yuuri pronounced it, it was foreign to him as well.

“And, what, you… _play_ this?! It’s just a box!”

“No, it’s really cool, look!”

Yuuri got up from his chair and went over there, to the corner with all the instruments. Yurio made way for him, expecting him to get the box and go back to his chair or maybe the couch to play it on his lap or something – but Yuuri simply _sat_ on the box.

“Huh?!”

“This is how we play it!” He leaned back a little on it so that the feet of the box were just a tad off the ground; he seemed completely comfortable in his new “seat”.

“This is for percussion, right, it’s basically a drum. So…” He slapped the box – the cajón – a few times in slightly different places on its front face, his hands making expert light moves, sometimes hitting it with his palm, sometimes with his fingers, Yuuri himself not even looking at the instrument.

It was… _just_ like a drum.

Yuuri stopped to think for a moment, then seemed to chose something.

“Okay, you might know this one? It would be better with a guitar to accompany, but…” He hummed for a few seconds and then switched to singing in a very, very low voice, Yurio couldn’t quite make out the words – it was like Yuuri was simply trying to reach a specific point in the song. When he got to where he wanted his voice became clearer, singing “ _and darling I_ ”, hitting the cajón again with his fingers at its very edge, while the other hand rhythmically slapped the surface closer to the center, each hand creating a completely different sound.

“ _…will be loving you 'til we’re 70_

 _And baby, my heart could still fall as hard at 23…_ ”

Oh, he _knew_ that, Mila loved that song, had listened to it on repeat for _months_ last year – or was it the year before?

Yuuri kept the rhythm, repeating the same pattern of movement while he sang, not loud, just clear enough to be intelligible, and it was all so… simple. And harmonious. Yurio had to admit Katsudon’s voice was okay, each of his hands doing their own thing, and somehow it all amounted to music. Like, real music. Music that he _knew_.

Yuuri’s right hand hit the center a few continuous times, along with the words “ _…just wanna tell you I am…_ ”, and just like that, the demonstration was over.

He came this close to applauding.

Except that he would _never_.

But he couldn’t help nodding and saying “Impressive,” and he hated that he sounded much less nonchalant than he would’ve liked. So he added, “Yeah, I know this one alright. It’s mushy.”

Yuuri smiled. “Yeah, it is. Let me think of another one, then. Something less mushy.”

Without a second thought, Yurio sat on the floor in front of Yuuri and waited.

Then Yuuri’s face brightened up with an idea. “I got it! It’s a bit older, but…” he spread his hands apologetically, but to Yurio’s relief, didn’t actually say the words to apologize.

One light slap on the center and he started:

“ _I wanna be the minority_

_And I don’t need your authority_

_Down with the moral majority_

_Cause I wanna be the minority_ ”

His fingers hit the edges of the cajón fast, lightly, constantly, in various small different ways creating the non-stop, familiar melody.

The boy felt his eyes go wide and a slow grin spread across his face: he _actually_ _liked_ that one. And it sounded just like the real thing! Sure, there were no guitars or bass, but the beat was there. His own right hand started tapping his knee in the same rhythm of the song, and he mumbled the words along with Yuuri.

 

* * *

 

“Much better! But when you hit it, if you, like, _push_ it in you kinda deaden the sound, so try to leave your hand as light as possible and let it bounce off.”

“Oh okay, like this then?” Yurio hit the cajón again, and this time the sound came out like it was supposed to.

Yuuri smiled. “Yes, exactly!”

Someone cleared their throat and they both looked: Victor was standing at the door, and the look on his face was of utter confusion. He couldn’t have looked more baffled if he’d walked in on them dancing the salsa in traditional outfits.

“... What are you doing?”

“What does it look like? I’m playing,” Yurio snarled at him.

“He’s learning to play the cajón!” Yuuri tried to clarify. “How was practice?”

The furrow in Victor’s brow disappeared and his features softened into a smile.

“It was good! The choreography is coming along,” he said, leaning against the doorway. Yuuri had already noticed Victor was fond of that move. With good reason, it was… very effective. The litheness with which he did it always had Yuuri’s eyes instinctively following the line of his body. Was he aware of the effect he had on people when he just… moved? Or looked at them with those eyes that should’ve been impossible in real life? His smile alone would’ve inspired dozens of sonatas in 19th century Vienna. He _had_ to know, it was inconceivable that someone could be _that_ attractive and not know it.

“You should come watch when you got the time, see what you think,” Victor added.

Yuuri had to do some mental backtracking to remember what they were talking about.

“Oh, the… the choreography? Sure, yeah!” He smiled back at him, and they stayed that way for a while: Victor at the door and Yuuri at the other side of the studio, sitting with his chest pressed to the back of the chair, both just smiling at each other.

“Are you two done?!” Yurio snapped, getting up from the cajón. “Victor, you said you wanted to call Yakov about my routine, let’s go.”

“Ah, yes! I have an idea for your costume!”

The boy turned to Yuuri and frowned, then looked away.

“Thank you,” he mumbled at the floor. Yuuri tried his best not to show too much surprise.

“Oh. You’re welcome! I had fun!”

Yurio hummed and walked away, muttering a “move” to Victor and left. Victor winked at Yuuri before going after the boy, missing the blush on Yuuri’s cheeks.

Yuuri shook his head to get rid of the warmth on his face and got up. Well, that had been fun, percussion certainly suited Yurio.

Now the skaters would probably go to the onsen - which Yuuri had been staunchly avoiding ever since Victor had gotten there: dealing with a fully-clothed Victor was already much more than he could handle. Yuuri was generally unfazed by seeing people naked - the side effect of having grown up in a bath house - but Victor was far from a normal guest, and there was no pretending otherwise.

With them at the onsen, Yuuri would still have some time alone to work on his own music before dinner.

… Or maybe answer that invitation Minami-kun had sent him?

He took one guilty glance at the envelope on the table, half covered by a few music sheets, and turned away.

He sat at the piano, but couldn’t bring himself to lift the fall board.

If the studio needed score for a movie, he’d make music to help a scene evoke the feelings it was meant to; if a skater needed a piece for a routine, he’d make music that he felt sounded like the way they moved on the ice.

But a piece about himself? What even _sounded_ like him? What did he have to say?

Katsuki Yuuri was not a story worth being told. That melody that insisted on not moving and not evolving was proof of that. He wanted it to rise, but it only felt like it had nothing to hold on to.

A piece that was neither giving up nor going somewhere.

[ _Mission accomplished, then: the piece sounds just like you._ ]

It was missing something.

[ _Aren’t you?_ ]

Knowing where to look or what to look for would be an answer of sorts already, but he didn’t even have that. So he and the piece wandered while they fought each other.

And he figured that was the only story he had to tell: wandering and fighting by himself.

 

~

 

Yurio pointed an accusatory finger at him, from the other side of the rink. “What are you doing here?!”

The morning light came through every window in the Ice Castle and hit the rink in long, radiant patches of light, making enormous strips of the ice too bright to look at and forcing Yuuri to squint at the two figures in its very center. It wasn’t until Victor skated towards him that he saw him and his huge smile properly.

Behind the barrier and leaning over it, next to Victor, Yuuri held his own phone ready to film Yurio.

“I came to watch you skate,” he replied, looking at the image of Yurio on the phone rather than directly at the teenager himself. “When you’re ready!”

“ _When you’re ready_ ? Why are you filming me?! Victor! Tell him to go away!”

“Yurio, if you’re embarrassed to skate in front of other people, you’ll have to rethink some of your life choices,” Victor answered cheerfully.

Yurio let out a sound that was almost a bark and took position, looking like anger was the only thing capable of fueling him through the routine.

His flight back home had been booked the previous night, after they’d talked to Yakov. Yurio would be leaving in a couple of days **,** so Yuuri had precious little time to watch as much of his skating as possible. Having the boy skating right there in front of him made it much easier for him to go through with his idea.

As the first notes of _Agape_ reverberated throughout the arena, Yurio’s left arm rose above his head, then came down with a light caress on his face; he spun around and started flowing across the ice effortlessly, gracefully, in time with the music.

Yuuri held his breath: he looked like an angel. He’d seen Yurio’s last year’s routines on Youtube and knew the boy was good, head and shoulders above the competition in the Junior category; hadn’t been surprised to know he was already moving to the senior division. Seeing him skate in person, though, was something else entirely.

(Sure, he might want to work on his facial expressions and _not_ look angry, especially when skating a routine about unconditional love, but Yakov would probably take care of that.)

“He’s great,” he whispered.

Victor smiled affectionately. “Yeah, he is.” But then his smile changed into a pout. “You’ve never said _I’m_ great!”

“You’ve got tons of medals telling you that already,” Yuuri answered in a flat tone, eyes never leaving the teenager gliding on the ice. Victor gasped and clutched his chest.

“Yuuri, you’re so _cold_! Is that how you talk to your favorite figure skater?”

Yuuri’s heart sank all the way down to his stomach, and he tried to swallow as discreetly as possible.

“I never said _you’re_ my favorite figure skater,” he said, using all of his powers of concentration to keep his eyes on Yurio. How did Victor _know_? Who’d told him?! Had he seen the posters on the first day?!

“True, but I like to think I am!” Victor grinned. Then, he seemed curious. “ _Do_ you have a favorite skater?”

The relief he’d felt had been too short-lived. Yuuri swallowed again. “N-no, no, not in particular, no. I mean… Phichit?” he finished a bit weakly. Could that have been any less convincing?

But Victor just laughed a little and waved a hand, his attention back to Yurio. “He’s your best friend, it doesn’t count. You’re biased!”

“I, uh, I really liked Jaime Estévez,” he replied, a bit too fast perhaps, but it was true. He’d always loved to watch Estévez’s routines – just not as much as Victor’s.

“Oh, Jaime. You composed a piece for him, didn't you?” Yuuri nodded, and Victor went on, “Yeah, the senior division hasn’t been the same since he retired. Which _means_ you need to pick a new favorite skater!” He looked at him again with a brilliant smile. “Maybe a Russian this time?”

Yuuri smiled sweetly. “You’re right. Yurio’s definitely the rising star of Russia, I think he’s my new favorite.”

“ _Yuuriii_!”

 

~

 

“You didn’t have to come all the way to Fuokuka, I can take care of myself.”

“Fu-ku-o-ka,” Yuuri corrected him, getting Yurio’s documents back from the check-in lady.

“Yeah, except that Yakov made me swear I wouldn’t take my eyes off you here in Japan,” Victor reminded him. “Besides, isn’t it much better to have someone who speaks Japanese with us? He’s doing it all so efficiently!”

“And here I thought I was invited to come along for the company. My mistake.” Yuuri muttered distractedly, while checking that all the information on Yurio’s ticket was correct. He registered Victor’s light gasp.

“Yuuri, no, I didn’t mean it like that! Of course I asked you to come for the company!”

Yuuri shook his head softly and gave him a melancholy smile.

“That’s fine, I’m used to it. At least you think I’m useful, so that’s something.”

Victor’s jaw dropped in the most cartoonish way, and it was the first time Yuuri saw those beautiful eyes _horrified_. He’d feel sorry if it wasn’t so comical.

He kept his head downcast, not making eye contact, while Victor babbled a string of incoherent apologies - until he heard both Yuris snort. Then the coin dropped.

“You’re…! _Yuuri_! Honestly, how can you be so mean?!”

“Serves you right,” Yurio snickered, “you’re too easy.”

Apparently deciding not to dignify that, or Yuuri’s laughter, with an answer, Victor walked ahead of both of them for a while. Once they reached the gates, though, his righteous indignation was forgotten.

“Yakov will be at the airport to pick you up. Send me a text when you land, okay?”

“You don’t have to worry about me.”

Victor smiled. “Yeah, I know.”

Not even Yurio could be deaf to the warmth in Victor’s voice; Yuuri watched his face go from defensive to disarmed and for a brief moment he looked painfully young.

 _Not one day older than 15_ , he thought.

He vaguely wondered which of the two was more of a walking paradox: Victor Nikiforov, who looked and moved like an aloof ice deity but was unexpectedly warm and clingy, or Yuri Plisetsky, who acted like a wild tiger but was actually an awkward kitten.

Yurio turned to him, looking him straight in the eye and extending his hand.

“Thank you.”

If he weren’t acutely aware that it would get him killed, Yuuri would’ve hugged the boy right there and then. As it was, he smiled and shook the hand he was finally being offered.

“Anytime, Yurio!”

“That’s not my n- whatever.”

Yurio turned to Victor; there was no hug or handshake - Yuuri had the feeling they were too used to each other for the teenager to bother with those.

[ _And they’ll be seeing each other again in Russia pretty soon, won’t they?_ You’re _the one who they won’t see anymore._ ]

In lieu of a handshake Yurio frowned, glanced at Yuuri and then said something in Russian. Victor’s eyes widened and he huffed a small laugh, answering him with what sounded like an amused question. Yurio snarled back and this time Victor answered seriously. That seemed to satisfy the boy somewhat; he nodded and, with a “see you soon”, went through the gates and disappeared from view.

Victor sighed and Yuuri looked at him. Was he sad? He’d been away from home for weeks now, he had to be missing it, and seeing Yurio go was probably a reminder of that. Yuuri was no stranger to homesickness, and he wanted to reassure Victor that he would be able to go back home in no time; _Eros_ would be recorded in a couple of days and then he’d be free to leave.

“You’re gonna miss him, right?”

Victor tilted his head. “Yes. But also… _not_ seeing Yura every day feels like a small vacation?”

“Victor!”

“He _is_ tiring, and I’m getting old!”

Yuuri shook his head reproachfully; Victor’s face softened and he gave him such a fond smile Yuuri’s heart skipped a beat.

“He’s quite attached to you.”

“Me?!” Yuuri was surprised to hear that. Yurio hadn’t been as hostile the last few days, true, but “quite attached”?

“He… pretty much just said so.”

Could that have been what those words in Russian had been all about? Had they been talking about him? Yuuri opened his mouth to ask what it was they’d said, but thought about it and closed it again. If those words had been meant for his ears, Yurio wouldn’t have switched languages; he’d never spoken in Russian in front of Yuuri since the first day. Whatever it was, he didn’t want Yuuri to know, and he had to respect that.

When Yuuri didn’t say anything else about it, Victor smiled. “Let’s go home.”

 

~

 

That still wasn’t right.

He liked it, yes, but it didn’t _suit_ him. It was pretty enough, perhaps, but was “pretty” what he was going for? It sounded so… delicate. He grinned. “Mushy”. Yuri Plisetsky was many things, the list was long, but “mushy” and “delicate” were not on that list.

The speed suited what he could do on the ice (Yurio was most definitely an _allegro_ person, that was not even up for debate), but that joyful vibe was not “the Russian Punk”. It was all too... gentle and warm. If this piece was truly about Yurio, then the first thing you should get from it was pressing speed, impatient beauty, a whiff of desperation. Something fast and passionate that hit you like a ton of bricks, that made you stop and pay attention. The gentleness and the warmth needed to be a hidden layer, to which you could only get after you’d been listening for some time.

He had to peel off that lightheartedness. Make it stronger, fiercer, more serious. He had to-

Stupid.

He obviously had to change the key.

A minor key would suit Yurio much better, majors were too clear, too open; and Yuuri had the _nerve_ to try and compose Yuri Plisetsky in C major, of all keys - a key that was earnest and lively. Bright.

Like Victor.

Victor moved exactly how C major sounded.

He shook his head: Yuri. Yuri Plisetsky. How did _Yurio_ move?

Yuuri’s hands went back to the keyboard, experimenting with different keys and searching for the one that would strip the piece of its outer layer; the one that, allied with that tempo, would create that fiery beauty he was looking for.

One hour had gone by (or maybe a few minutes, it was hard to tell) before he found what he wanted. [He played the entire piece once](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9Qimb1cbjjE&index=37&list=FLsdlfmxULCqDAhPxEQYU0PQ), then again, grabbed the music sheet and made alterations. Yes, that was it, wasn’t it? Yurio was definitely a -

A sudden impact on his back and his hands splayed abruptly on the keys.

He turned around in a mini-panic.

Tongue, slobber.

“Macca! How did you…?”

It was getting hard to see, with the dog licking even his glasses, but he noticed the door was ajar; he must’ve not closed it properly and Maccachin had pushed it.

When she finally settled somewhat he scratched her behind the ear.

“What, came to hear me play? Wanna keep me company?”

The dog licked his hand for one whole minute, and he took that as a yes.

“How about you hear my new piece, then?”

He turned around to the piano, and Maccachin seemed to understand: she got off of him and sat next to his bench, tail wagging in anticipation.

He took a deep breath and started, his hands flying all over the keys; it was finally what it should be. Quick, relentless, vehement and yet graceful. A bit exhausting.

When he was done, Maccachin crouched, wagged her tail again and barked twice. The same thing she did when she wanted to grab Yurio’s attention.

He laughed. “Yeah, it _does_ sound like him, doesn’t it?”

She crouched and barked again; the piece had gotten her all riled up. No wonder.

“Okay, let’s have something calm now! How about… hmm… _Quasi una fantasia_ no.2? You know, _The Moonlight Sonata_? Or… maybe you _don’t_ know, I don’t know what Victor listens to...”

What _did_ Victor listen to? The only thing Yuuri knew about his musical taste was that he’d liked _The Nereid’s Call_ , _A Night of Winters_ , _Agape_ and _Eros_. If the music he chose to skate to throughout the years was anything to go by, he was pretty eclectic: ballet, tango, Broadway, classical, opera, R &B, blues, pop, rock… but maybe he didn’t only skate to music he liked?  Some skaters could completely divorce their personal musical taste from music they thought would make a nice routine. He could see Victor in this group.

But he could also see him listening to _The Moonlight Sonata_. It suited him somehow, even though it was in C minor. It certainly didn’t fit the Victor who whined “Yuuuuriii!” and said “vkusno!” with a heart-shaped mouth, but it did fit the Victor he’d found on the rink weeks ago, skating all alone and completely lost in his own thoughts. That Victor was a C minor, and it hurt to watch. Victor should only be in major keys.

“Yeah, no _Moonlight Sonata_ for us, not today. It’s a bit cliché anyway, isn’t it?”

[ _Huh. So it’s okay to play_ your _own piece, but Beethoven is not good enough? Don’t we think highly of ourselves._ ]

“No, I mean, Beethoven is brilliant, of course! Always brilliant! Much better than anything I could ever come up with! You don’t think I look down on Beethoven, right Macca?”

Maccachin simply lied down where she was, and it made Yuuri’s heart sink: Vicchan used to lie next to his piano bench just like that, and would listen to him for hours if Yuuri let him. Which he always did.

He should’ve come home last year to visit. He’d gone to Tokyo but as usual, hadn’t had the energy to extend his visit to Hasetsu. Detroit - Tokyo - L.A. - Detroit, that was his usual itinerary. He had too little time, he’d told himself at the time, better go to Hasetsu when he had more time to spare, make it a decent visit. And when he’d finally found that time to spare, he’d been invited to play at the Snow Hall Festival, and he’d postponed his visit (again).

But Vicchan had been waiting all that time. He’d been waiting outside his studio, probably scratching at the door in the hope of finding Yuuri in there again. He’d still been lying against the door, in the snow, when Mari had found him in the morning.

And it was his fault. He should’ve come home when he’d had the chance, should’ve taken him to Detroit when they’d gotten the apartment, Phichit wouldn’t have minded. He should’ve _been there_ for Vicchan, who’d always been there for him. Vicchan had watched him dance, listened to him play, licked his tears when he couldn’t dance anymore, welcomed him home with what _had_ to be a smile every time he came back.

And he’d failed him.

The sudden slobber on his hand woke him up: Maccachin. He sniffed and then laughed.

“Thank you, Macca! I’m gonna play you something, then, let’s see if you like it! It’s... it was Vicchan’s favorite. Now, I know Victor speaks French and all, but I only know the version in English, sorry. I hope it’s okay!”

[The music ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oo_3WiQBAhY&list=FLsdlfmxULCqDAhPxEQYU0PQ&index=45)came back to him easily, naturally, how many times hadn’t he played it? It was an old favorite and it brought Vicchan back to his mind the way he should be remembered: not tiny and lifeless in the snow, but warm and friendly and full of quiet life, right next to his piano with his head and a paw on Yuuri’s left foot.

The words also came easily, he didn’t even have to think about what the next line was gonna be. Lyrics and notes followed one another instinctively, one by one, until they faded away and the studio was silent once again.

Or not.

“You’re full of surprises, Katsuki Yuuri. _La vie en rose_?”

He turned around with huge eyes: Victor, of course. Seeing him in sweatpants and a simple dark green t-shirt still managed to make Yuuri feel like he was prying, like he had no right to be looking at Victor’s domestic self. He should be used to that by now; he both wanted to _and_ was afraid of getting used to it.

“You heard the piano, huh?”

“Yeah, I was looking for Maccachin and heard you play. It’s… rare for this door to be open.”

Victor leaned against the doorway as usual; Yuuri’s family and friends never dared “disturb” him in his studio, but Victor kept showing up at his door. And yet, he never entered without an express invitation. If Yuuri didn’t invite him in, Victor would stay there, halfway, right on the edge of Yuuri’s world - closer than most people thought of going, but still respecting the space Yuuri had created for himself.

Yuuri smiled at him. “Come on in.”

 

* * *

 

Victor had spent the day practicing his _Eros_ routine and it was practically done. Now he had to think better of his jumps. It was sure to be exhausting when it was done, the piece could definitely hold some high level of technical difficulty, but it also demanded flawless performance. Victor wanted to convey every little piece of the story Yuuri had created, to match each single note in it.

After the shower there was no Yuuri anywhere. At the studio, probably. He unlocked his phone: he should start looking for flights back to Russia. Yuuri had told him the final version of _Eros_ would be recorded next week, and once he had his SP music there would be nothing else for him to do there. Yakov would demand he go back home, and what could Victor possibly say? “Sorry, Yakov, I want to see Yuuri dance and play more, he gives me life”? Yuuri himself wouldn’t understand if he didn’t leave.

He locked his phone again. That oscillating dance between what you should do and what you _want_ to do.

He walked around the inn looking for signs of Maccachin and found Mrs. Katsuki instead. He smiled; they could barely communicate, but he understood affection when he saw it.

“Katsuki-san, Maccachin?”

Her eyes brightened. “Yuuri!”

He headed for the studio, but he was in for a surprise: sounds. The area around the studio was always dead silent, but today he could hear piano.

Unrelenting piano, at that.

The door was slightly ajar, not enough for him to poke his head in, but enough for him to listen to the music escaping through it. When he got there, Yuuri was talking and letting out that tiny little laugh of his that was so _musical_ , like everything else he did.

“... _The Moonlight Sonata_? Or… maybe you _don’t_ know, I don’t know what Victor listens to...”

A pause, then “Yeah, no _Moonlight Sonata_ for us, not today. It’s a bit cliché anyway, isn’t it? No, I mean, Beethoven is brilliant, of course! Always brilliant! Much better than anything I could ever come up with! You don’t think I look down on Beethoven, right Macca?”

Victor covered his mouth not to laugh: Yuuri was _explaining himself_ to a dog. He was just… Would he find it _very_ weird if Victor barged in and, just, hugged him for an entire hour?

A long pause, and just as Victor was about to open the door and call him, Yuuri spoke again and he sounded… off.

“Thank you, Macca! I’m gonna play you something, then, let’s see if you like it! It’s... it was Vicchan’s favorite. Now, I know Victor speaks French and all, but I only know the version in English, sorry. I hope it’s okay!”

Had he been about to cry? What was going on in his he-

_La vie en rose._

Yuuri was playing _La vie en rose._

Katsuki Yuuri was playing _La vie en rose_ for Maccachin. Victor’s Maccahin. On the piano.

“ _Hold me close and hold me fast_

_This magic spell you cast_

_This is la vie en rose_ ”

Victor’s breath disappeared.

Sweet mother of God, he was singing it.

He buried his face in one hand: Yuuri was playing and _singing_ Victor’s favorite song, and he was pretty sure he could hear his own sanity falling apart along with the music.

Victor had always found the original version in French more beautiful than any other, but this. _This_. If Édith Piaf touched his heart, then Katsuki Yuuri grabbed it and squeezed it and played with it at will. Without even being aware of it.

“ _Give your heart and soul to me_

_And life will always be_

_La vie en rose..._ ”

Victor didn’t doubt those lyrics for a second.

He remembered to breathe and finally opened the door.

“You’re full of surprises, Katsuki Yuuri. _La vie en rose_?”

Yuuri turned to him with those huge brown eyes of his, those eyes that were warmer than Victor’s entire life.

“You heard the piano, huh?”

“Yeah, I was looking for Maccachin and heard you play. It’s… rare for this door to be open.”

Yuuri smiled at him, at _him_. “Come on in.”

Victor walked in and sat on the couch, and Yuuri turned on the bench to look at him, all cute in his glasses, baggy clothes and shy smile.

“I must say, Yuuri, you have impeccable taste in music.”

Yuuri shook his head dismissively. “I’m… sorry you had to listen to me butcher Édith Piaf, really.”

 _You_ should _be sorry, it was so sweet I almost had to breathe into a paper bag._

“Please, Yuuri, that was far from butchering it. You should give yourself more credit,” he answered. He had the pleasure of seeing that familiar shade of embarrassed pink spread over the other man’s face.

The dance had started: he complimented Yuuri, Yuuri blushed and changed the subject to hide his embarrassment. Victor was still trying to work around that routine, trying to find a way to break it not too abruptly.

The one thing he’d forgotten was that, between the two of them, the professional dancer was Yuuri. He might allow Victor to lead at times, but he could take the lead at any time he so wished.

Like now.

Yuuri moved on the bench, scooching over to the side and giving the seat next to him a few light pats.

Making room for him.

Victor walked over there almost in a trance, his eyes glued to Yuuri. He sat next to him and Yuuri smiled; a graceful movement of his arms later and his hands were hovering over the keyboard, expectantly, his eyebrows raised playfully.

“Any requests?”

He should _not_ be sitting so close to Confident Piano Yuuri.

“Well… you’ve just played my favorite song,” Yuuri’s eyes became enormous at that, “so why don’t you play me one of _your_ favorites?”

Yuuri was apparently unprepared for that answer. He thought for some moments, distractedly running a hand through his hair and pushing it all the way back; Victor’s eyes automatically followed the movement, taking it all in - how soft his hair looked (what did it _feel_ like?), how his eyes focused and sparkled as he searched for what he wanted, the lovely line of his jaw, his lips slightly parted.

“Okay, here’s one, then.”

One of his hands rested softly on his knee - so, so close to Victor’s right leg - while the other played the first notes of the song, notes forming [an extremely recognizable melody](https://youtu.be/J-6mpjtS5Kc?t=8s). And as his other hand eventually joined in, so did his voice.

“ _Why do birds suddenly appear_

_Every time you are near_

_Just like me, they long to be_

_Close to you_ ”

He didn’t sing loud, nor did he need to: it was light, soft and clear.

And Victor couldn’t get enough of it. Couldn’t get enough of the way his voice went down to an almost whisper then rose limpidly in the next line, the way it undulated when he wanted it to, how it flowed weightlessly from word to word.

Yuuri sang just as tenderly as he existed.

A long note, half-closed eyes, body lightly swaying (he was dancing again), a slow smile on his face. Yuuri as a whole was too unfair, with that blush spreading from the tip of his ears down his face and neck as he sang

“ _So they sprinkled moondust in your hair of gold_

 _And starlight in your eyes of blue_ ”

Victor wouldn’t be able to move or take his eyes off Yuuri’s hands, Yuuri’s mouth, Yuuri, all of Yuuri, even if there were an earthquake - and he wasn’t sure he wasn’t experiencing one right now. Or maybe developing a heart condition, because all that beat-skipping was sure to cause permanent damage.

But obviously the damage was already done, and nothing seemed to be as permanent as the man next to him, who was as unlike damage as it could possibly get.

Nothing was as mysterious and unmistakable as Katsuki Yuuri.

Who had just played the final notes and rested his hand back on his knees as the silence fell around them. Heavy silence that permeated everything and made the lack of space between them bounce off the walls. Victor was too aware of the fact he was breathing.

Yuuri’s hand was still too close to his, it’d be easy to brush against it.

So instead of brushing against it, he took it - slowly, with his heart in his throat, watching as Yuuri’s face and neck flushed again, feeling his warm hand actually settle in Victor’s and hold it. Feeling a current of electricity run from his heart to the tip of his toes.

Wishing Yuuri’s heart was tightening as much as his own.

“Yuuri...”

He finally looked up, his face a mess of pink cheeks, bright eyes and parted lips. Victor’s head was nothing but a haze, he needed, _needed_ to know if those lips would be just as warm as the hand he was holding.

Yuuri’s eyes flitted to his mouth and Victor leaned in, only half registering Yuuri holding his breath as he got closer.

A loud whimper.

A loud whimper and Yuuri _jumped_ , hitting his knee against the piano and hurriedly untangling himself from hand, piano and bench.

Victor breathed again and looked to his left: Maccachin was having a nightmare, twitching her legs and whimpering. He stretched a bit and patted her back.

“Shhh, Macca,” he whispered.

She jerked awake and looked at him, confused and sleepy; then she licked his hand. He patted her some more, very aware that Yuuri was behind him, standing on the other side of the piano doing or feeling God knew what.

Someone had to talk, and he could tell it was pretty much up to him.

“...She has nightmares sometimes. I almost always wake up in the middle of the night with her whining.”

“I see. She… she’s probably tired, right? I mean, it’s late. And… you haven’t had dinner yet, have you?”

Victor swallowed a sigh: their dance was over. He got up from the bench and put on the best smile he had.

“No, I haven’t, it must be time already. Let’s go, then!”

Yuuri avoided eye contact and twisted his hands. “I, um… I think I’m gonna stay here? I was actually working on something before… before Macca came in. I have to… make some, um, some adjustments. And, like, make sure it’s all… good. And stuff. Music-wise, you know.”

“Oh. Yeah. Yeah, of course! Then, I’ll see you later?”

“Yeah, see you,” Yuuri replied to the floor.

Victor called Maccachin and they both left the studio, Victor being very careful to close the door behind him without looking at Yuuri again. Once he was sure the door was really closed and he’d heard the lock click into place, he sighed.

One thing was for sure: Maccachin was never stepping into that studio with him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Macca, no... *shakes head*
> 
> Ok, so: I wrote this chapter BEFORE we had any info on Yuri's Welcome to the Madness routine; the DVD hadn't been released yet, so no one had ever seen his routine, and we had no idea how he'd chosen this song. The only thing that existed at the time was the song included in the YOI Skate Song Collection (Oh! Suketora!!!) and the vague explanation that it was Yuri's EX (and me wondering who the hell had choreographed a routine for Yuri to THAT, since I had a hard time picturing Lilia Baranovskaya accepting such a song for her little prima ballerina XD)  
> Now we know everything about Yuri's EX, but now it's too late, the chapter was here first! OTL  
> So you know. It's an AU. Things are different in this universe, and here Yuri knew WTTM before he knew Otabek and has been wanting to skate to it for a while. At least I got the spirit of it right, I guess? Poor Yuri just wants to have a say in the matter, wants to be himself while skating. You go, dude. You do you.


	7. If I could save time in a bottle

“Tomorrow already?”

“Yes, I’m going in the morning and coming back at the end of the day.”

Victor frowned. “You’ll spend the whole day there? How long does it take to record one song?”

“Well… sometimes it goes well, sometimes it’s trial and error.” Yuuri tried to think of a good analogy. “It’s like skating, I guess? You _know_ the choreography and the jumps, but you don’t necessarily... skate it perfectly every time? Playing is the same. But when you’re recording it, you gotta try as many times as it takes to make it perfect. And I’ll be recording two pieces tomorrow, so that might take some time.”

“I see. You’re leaving me all alone, then,” Victor lamented.

Yuuri squinted. Victor _sounded_ forlorn, but the twitching corners of his mouth said otherwise, so he just threw one of the pillows at him and muttered “don’t be so dramatic.”

Victor had just gotten back from his morning practice and stopped by the studio. Yuuri had sat on the sofa (slightly disappointed that Victor had chosen the chair instead of sitting next to him) and left the door open, allowing the sun to infiltrate a part of the studio. Maccachin lied with half her body outside and half inside, napping peacefully.

“I’ll bring back the official _Eros_ when I get back. It’ll be much better than the preview you’ve been skating to.”

“That’s not possible.”

Yuuri scoffed. “Of course it is. And then you’ll finally be able to...”

[ _To go back to Russia._ ]

“...to focus only on your free skate.”

“Yeah, I have to start thinking of music I can use.”

Yuuri had a mini-heart attack.

“ _You haven’t picked the music for your free skate yet?!_ ”

“No!” Victor answered cheerfully.

Yuuri resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. Why was Victor like that? No wonder Yakov sounded so angry on the telephone and video calls. If Yuuri had been a skater and still had no music to use for his free skate at this point in the year, he’d probably be in full out panic mode.

“Victor,” he finally managed to reply, horrified, “you _need_ to choose your music _now_.”

Victor sighed tiredly. “I know. I just… I really have no idea.” He said in a low voice. Then he sighed again, this time theatrically. “I guess I can always skate to _Romeo and Juliet_ or _Swan Lake_. You know, for originality points,” he added with a wink.

Yuuri raised his eyebrows, amused. “Yeah, no one’s _ever_ used those before, you’re gonna cause some real ripples in the skating world. If you want originality, why not _I Dreamed a Dream_?”

Victor nodded, unconvincingly serious. “Skating to _Les Misérables_ , yes. Unheard of _and_ dramatic, I like it.”

Yuuri smiled at Victor’s perfect French pronunciation, it was just too charming. Victor went on, pretending to think with one hand on his chin.

“But if I’m really going for drama I should use _Carmen_.”

Yuuri visibly cringed. “You might as well use the _Malagueña_ , then.”

He got the exact reaction he’d thought he would: a pout.

“I’ve already skated to the _Malagueña_!”

Yuuri knew that, of course, and it was hard to forget. Fresh off his famously controversial haircut (at the time Yuuri had half mourned the loss of Victor’s long hair and half fallen in love with the new cut), Victor had skated onto the ice looking impossibly good in black pants and a slightly unbuttoned red shirt, beaten Jaime Estévez for the first time in his senior career, broken his first FS world record and started a five-year winning streak. Victor’s _Malagueña_ was part of figure skating history.

He tilted his head and opened his eyes really wide. “Have you, now?”

“Yuuri, I don’t know where you get that mean streak from, your parents are nothing like that.”

“Try growing up with Mari,” he replied with a chuckle. Had anyone told Yuuri a few months ago that one day he’d be sitting in his music studio in Hasetsu with Victor Nikiforov, discussing music and themes for his next routines, Yuuri would’ve laughed hysterically and then maybe sobbed over how cruel people’s jokes could be. But here he was, making fun of the Living Legend’s record-breaking _Malagueña_ routine to his face and even scolding him. How had that even happened?

“But seriously, do you really have no idea what to use for your free skate?”

“I’ve thought of a few things, but none really fit the theme I have in mind.”

“What’s your theme?”

Victor spun around in the chair slowly, answering in the brief seconds he had his back to Yuuri.

“Life and Love.”

A nice theme. Joyful, even. So why did he sound like C minor Victor?

“Why this one?”

Victor looked at him and Yuuri hurried to add “I’m sorry, you don’t have to answer! I was just… was just curious, but it’s none of my business!”

“No, that’s okay, I don’t mind. I chose it because I like to skate about things I either understand, so I can tell their stories, or… things I don’t understand, so I can maybe… try to unravel them.”

Yuuri didn’t ask in which of the two categories “life and love” fell, the answer was obvious. In what universe did Victor Nikiforov not understand love?

Victor smiled cheerfully and leaned forward in the chair: “And what do _you_ like to compose about?”

“Me? Oh, I... I... ” He stopped. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d composed something not on commission, something for himself. “Yuuri” was the first thing he composed, well, _tried_ to compose, of his own volition in years.

[ _And it’s going nowhere, so clearly not the best idea you’ve ever had._ ]

“I… I like to work with stories I’m given? When I hear or read a story, I just… get what I feel from it and… try to make it into music. I guess.”

“Stories you’re _given_ ,” Victor repeated, and he seemed to have caught on to the one detail Yuuri was hoping he wouldn’t. “What about your own stories?”

Yeah, he had.

Yuuri took off his glasses and cleaned them, even though they weren’t smudged; he just didn’t want to see Victor clearly when saying it.

“I don’t have any stories.”

To say that to Victor, of all people. Yuuri knew many accomplished story-tellers, but Victor was the only one who could do it without words. All he needed was the ice and a pair of skates. He always, _always_ had a story to tell, always knew _how_ to tell it, ever fluent in a language that everyone could understand, but no one could speak as eloquently. And then there was him - awkward, tongue-tied him, who had no stories and could barely use his own mother language without stuttering. Someone who would never be the equal of a Victor Nikiforov.

Victor huffed a soft laugh: “I seriously doubt that.”

“But that’s how it is,” he replied stubbornly.

“Really?”

Yuuri squinted at him. Victor had crossed his legs and was examining Yuuri with a finger to his lips and a quietly amused smile.

“So where did the inspiration for _Eros_ come from?”

That familiar feeling of flushing cheeks that he hated so much was there again. God forbid he had any control whatsoever over his emotions. “ _From you, who else?_ ” was simply not an appropriate answer to that question, so he went with a half-truth.

“I used the story you gave me. Wasn’t it what you wanted?”

“What about _Agape_ , then? Whose story did you use?”

He felt his eyes widen a little and tried to hide it by ducking his head and cleaning his glasses again.

[ _Go ahead, tell him that_ he _was the inspiration behind your piece on worship_ and _the one on desire. That should be interesting._ ]

Yeah, that was so out of the question.

…though they _had_ almost kissed the day before. That was what had happened, right?

[ _Uh-huh. But he also didn’t try or bring up the subject again. He’s not even sitting next to you now._ ]

He examined the lenses, still pretending to be looking for non-existent smudges.

“...What’s your point, Victor?”

“My point is that sometimes you don’t see very clearly.”

“I _never_ see anything clearly, that’s why I wear glasses,” Yuuri retorted, deadpan. Victor made a show of sighing and rolling his eyes, stood up and turned the chair around, crossing his arms over the backrest and resting his chin there.

“You’re too sassy for your own good, Katsuki Yuuri.” Yuuri half-smiled: Victor seemed overly fond of saying his full name ever since he’d discovered that in Japan people used the last name before their given name. And his name rolled off Victor’s tongue with ease, as if it had always been there. As if it belonged.

“Be cheeky if you want,” he continued with a wink, “but everyone has a story. And I’m sure you could make music with yours.”

They stared at each other, Victor radiant as always and Yuuri uncertain. There was an answer bubbling out of him, something he hadn’t ever planned to mention but that was just about to pour - not like a storm, coming in the wake of dark clouds piling up in the horizon and the distant sound of thunder, but like a mild summer rain, that you sense from the way the earth smells right before it. Calm, but still unstoppable.

“I, uh, I did. Actually. But it’s not… it’s just not _good_ , so...”

Victor sat up straight all of a sudden, startling Yuuri; then he stood up and crossed the room in three strides, stopping by the piano and going through Yuuri’s sheet music in somewhat of a frenzy until he found the one he wanted.

“Here! This says ‘Yuuri’, right?”

Yuuri’s eyes flew wide open. “Y-yes, but… since when can you read kanji?”

Victor looked at him surprised. “ _You_ showed me the kanji of your name. On my first week here.”

“But that was ages ago, you still remember?”

“Of course, how could I forget?”

Yuuri didn’t know how to answer that. He knew from experience that westerners had enough of a hard time dealing with hiragana, which was simple enough, let alone kanji. For them, all kanji looked the same. But Victor had bothered to commit to memory the ones that formed Yuuri’s name.

“Is this piece about you, then?” The Russian asked excitedly, and it was hard not to smile back a little.

“Yeah, it is. But - ”

“Can I hear it?”

Yuuri’s smile died instantly and he flailed. “No! No, it’s, it’s awful, it’s not finished, it’s just… it’s…” Victor raised his eyebrows and Yuuri sighed. He was trying to grasp at another word, one that would sound less defeated, but sometimes you just had to call a spade a spade. “It’s uninspired.”

“Uninspired. Yuuri...”

He hung his head. Victor was about to give him a pep talk, wasn’t he? He was going to tell him again that his music was amazing or something and while it was great to hear him say it, it just wasn’t true, not all the time, and -

“...how about we go to the rink?”

 

* * *

 

“It’s there on the playlist!”

From the middle of the rink, he observed Yuuri scroll down the playlist on Victor’s phone and waited. Any minute now.

Yuuri frowned and scrolled faster and Victor smiled.

Three, two...

“Victor...”

One:

“Why do you only have my music here?!”

There. He grinned. “What, am I not allowed?”

“Of course you are, but… how do you even…?”

Victor raised an eyebrow. “ _How_? Yuuri, you should go on the internet sometime, it’s a wonderful place. You can get all the music you want there.”

Yuuri huffed adorably. “I mean, _why_?”

“Because it’s good, why else?”

“Victor, please, you don’t have to listen to it.”

With an easy motion, Victor skated towards Yuuri and leaned on the rink wall separating them.

“No, I don’t have to.” He leaned in closer. “But I _want_ to.”

He looked at Yuuri’s face, waiting for the blush that never came; instead, Yuuri rolled his eyes. “You’re impossible. Fine, it’s your phone anyway.”

Dammit. Just when he’d thought he’d gotten the hang of it. He’d been _sure_ he’d see that blush he was so fond of already. But the thing about Yuuri was that he was much harder to predict than one would give him credit for.

Victor laughed a little and skated away. “I’m still waiting for you to press play!”

Yuuri mumbled something he couldn’t make out; he could mumble all he wanted for now, Victor would see what he’d have to say _after_ his skating. He made it to the center of the rink and took position, tilting his head, slanting his hips just so and waiting for the familiar piano notes to start. According to Yuuri, the piano would be substituted for other instruments in its recorded version, and Victor half-wished it wouldn’t - the piano was something he associated with Yuuri, and who better to have in mind when skating to _Eros_ than the Playboy himself?

(Although now he felt guilty to think of Yuuri that way, that had been a whole new level of misinterpretation that only Victor could’ve achieved, really. But just because he wasn’t a playboy it didn’t mean he hadn’t seduced and left town all the same. Yuuri fled like a nymph from a satyr, unaware he was a siren who led men to their deaths with her music. Like Victor’s personal nereid.)

Victor moved with [the first notes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ArI2r2C2IT4), running his hands along his body and gliding backwards; and in that light pause, that brief silence between the piano and the violin, he turned his head to Yuuri, held his gaze for one quick second and gave him a provocative smile.

Victor only had time to catch his eyes widening before violin and step-sequence began. The routine wasn’t 100% ready, he needed Yakov’s opinion on the spins and jump composition, but the heart of it was there. The footwork, the movement, the _seduction_ was there, as perfect a copy of Banquet Yuuri’s body language and confidence as he could manage.

A counter, a clap above his head, a spread eagle that came with a slight halt in both piano and violin, a soft gasp coming from the rink wall and he smiled to himself. Yuuri had him captivated at every turn with his dancing, his music, the way he moved - now it was Victor’s chance to finally do the same. He hoped it was working, that was what the routine was all about, after all.

Victor went into a camel spin, his hands behind his back and his mind on the way Yuuri had spun around the pole that night (the knot in his stomach told him not to focus on that _too much_ ). Victor tried to move the exact same way Banquet Yuuri had: tempting, bewitching, free with his charms and downright sinful.

Another spread eagle and a triple axel - a difficult entry, not how he’d originally planned it, but he was here to impress, wasn’t he?

He had to _be_ Banquet Yuuri, alluring and inviting but _just_ out of reach, and _Eros_ was the perfect soundtrack for that. The story in it was so clear. Composer Yuuri could fumble with his words, sure, but he didn’t need them. All you had to do was give him an instrument and he’d weave story after story, making you feel whatever _he_ wanted, whatever he himself felt. And there was always so much of it. Victor had come after that, after the person that felt so much and let it all bleed into his music, who spun complex emotions and tales with the simplest notes.

As he landed a quadruple salchow he caught sight of Yuuri leaning on the rink wall, with a smile that made Victor’s heart skip a beat. He didn’t know what he’d been chasing at first, if it was Yuuri’s music or Yuuri’s smile, but it didn’t matter anymore, he could no longer separate one from the other.

More footwork and a smooth entry into a quad flip. Yuuri could get two gorgeous, completely opposite stories like _Agape_ and _Eros_ out of the same simple word, get Yuri Plisetsky to smile and come to his defense (Yurio, who only ever protected himself), turn Victor’s entire world in its axis. There was nothing “uninspired” about him.

He landed the jump and went into another camel spin, then out of the spin and into the final sequence, casting his imaginary lover aside and abruptly ending the routine with his arms wrapped around himself.

He held his final position for a moment longer, gasping for air and mentally scolding himself for suddenly deciding to have a quad flip in the second half; he’d have to change that, he was 27 for god’s sake, his stamina was far from what it used to be. But those thoughts were driven out of his mind by the sound of enthusiastic clapping and he looked up: Smiley Yuuri. One of his favorites (but then, which Yuuri wasn’t his favorite?).

He tried not to seem too smug as he went to him.

“That’s your short program?!” Yuuri asked, eyes huge and his whole face alight. Victor nodded, grinning.

“The main idea of it, yes. What do you think?”

Yuuri gaped at him, and Victor resisted the urge to reach out and close his jaw for him. He was finding he liked impressing Yuuri a bit too much.

“What _I_ think?”

“Yes, you, _solnyshko_.” The pet name escaped him before he could stop it, and he counted his blessings that Yuuri didn’t speak Russian. “It’s your music, isn’t it? I want to know if it does justice to what you had in mind when you composed it.”

“Of course it does! That was… beautiful, it’s amazing!” Yuuri shook his head, as if he was still a little stunned.

Victor beamed. “Thank you! But then, a routine is always the reflection of its music, don’t you think?”

“Of the skater too!” As Yuuri replied he leaned over the barrier and looked earnestly into Victor’s eyes, catching him off-guard. A beat of silence (their faces too close), and then the full meaning of Yuuri’s words dawned on Victor, his face heating up all at once. Only then did it sink in for Yuuri as well and he ducked his head uselessly, trying to hide his face. Victor had wanted to see him blushing just a few minutes ago, but what was the point when his own face was just as red? He wondered wildly if Yuuri would be too startled if Victor jumped over the rink wall and kissed him. Would that be too much? Maybe. _Maybe_.

He hadn’t seemed to object to the idea of kissing him the day before.

But he had also not talked about it either. It was like it had never happened.

He ran a hand through his hair to try and pull himself together, and smiled, “Thank you, Yuuri, but you can’t flatter your way out of this one! We’re talking about your music.”

The red subsided somewhat and Yuuri laughed a little. “I thought the topic was your routine?”

“A means to an end. I just wanted to show you what your music can accomplish. How inspiring it is.”

Yuuri sighed. “Victor, don’t worry, you don’t have to… I don’t know, _say_ things. Yeah, sometimes I make good enough music, but most of my pieces are just… bland.” He seemed to almost spit the last word.

 _Most of my pieces_. That was such a blatant lie that Victor would’ve been sure he was just fishing for compliments had he not already known Yuuri had no idea what to do with a compliment.

“Yuuri, no one can possibly choreograph a great routine without great music. And this is one of my best, if I do say so myself. _Agape_ too. Even Yurio liked it, and you know he likes nothing, right?”

“Pff, Yurio doesn’t ‘like’ _Agape_.”

“He does.” Yuuri didn’t answer that, just shook his head slightly. Victor gently took one of his hands in his own, wishing he didn’t have his skating gloves on. “Yuuri, these programs… my _Agape_ and _Eros_ wouldn’t be possible without you.”

He heard Yuuri’s breath hitch as Victor started drawing light circles on it with his thumb, but didn’t look up from where their hands met. If he did, he’d definitely have to jump over that wall.

“Yuuri-kun!!!”

The door opened with a loud BANG and Yuuri jumped in place, squeezing Victor’s hand so hard the skater whimpered a little. Where did Yuuri even _get_ that strength from?!

It was Yuuko coming towards them with a pair of skates in her hands.

“Hi Victor! Yuuri, Takeshi told me you came without your skates, so I brought a pair for you!”

“W-what? No, Yuu-chan…” his eyes flitted to Victor then back to her, and he switched to Japanese – but Yuuko seemed as surprised as Victor by the change in language, and her smile turned into a slight frown. She shook her head vehemently, talking over Yuuri with authority. Victor didn’t understand a single word in the entire exchange, but some things are universal and he could tell when someone was being scolded, regardless of language barriers.

This was one of those times, beyond the shadow of a doubt.

It didn’t last long: Yuuri hung his head and apologized (that word Victor knew, Yuuri said it _a lot_ ), then went back to English with a sigh.

“You’re right…”

She grinned and shoved the skates into his hands. “Here. These are your number. Enjoy!” With that she winked at Yuuri, waved at both of them and left, while Victor processed important information.

_You came without your skates._

_Your skates._

Yuuri had skates of his own.

And _that_ was not the speed his heart was supposed to be beating.

“Yuuri…” his throat was dry, was that normal? That was not normal. “You can skate?”

Yuuri shifted on his feet and avoided eye contact. Licked his lips. Mumbled. “A little.”

It made sense in retrospect. He was a dancer and a fan of figure skating, his childhood friends _owned_ an ice rink close to his house, his best friend was a professional figure skater. Of course Yuuri could skate, it was absurd to assume otherwise. Victor hadn’t exactly assumed, but the topic had never come up, Yuuri had never mentioned it.

Which also made all the sense, because Katsuki Yuuri would always be the very last person to talk about all the things he could do.

Victor snorted. He couldn’t help it.

“W-what? I know, it’s ridiculous, it’s just a childhood thing, really, I don’t, I don’t, you know, _skate_ , I just, move around and, and, don’t fall and I’m not… I’m not gonna skate, _obviously_ , Yuuko is just kidding, you’re training, I shouldn’t even be here, I-”

“Yuuri. Yuuri, stop.” Yuuri’s both hands were holding the skates as if his life depended on it, so Victor settled for touching one of his arms. “You’re here because I asked you, and I’m not training.” He tried to make his voice soothing, unsure of whether he was doing it right, he’d never known anyone as anxious as Yuuri before. He couldn’t be doing it too wrong, at least, because Yuuri stopped blabbering (though his whole body was still tense, if his arm was any indication).

“Now,” Victor continued, “are you going to hold these forever or are you going to skate with me?”

Yuuri went wide-eyed. “Skate with _you_?”

“Of course!”

“But Victor, no, I’m just gonna be in your way! Don’t worry, you don’t have to-”

“No, I don’t have to. So. Shall we?” He automatically hummed the tune of _Shall We Skate?_ , and amazingly enough that seemed to do the trick: Yuuri’s shoulders relaxed and he gave Victor an incredulous smile.

“You like _The King and the Skater_?”

He gasped. “What self-respecting skater _doesn’t_ like it?!”

“Many, I should think!”

“Okay, maybe a few. But c’mon, it’s a masterpiece.”

“A masterpiece? Oh my god, Phichit’s gonna love you,” Yuuri lamented shaking his head, and Victor smiled brightly.

“You’re going to introduce me to your best friend?”

“No! No, I mean… you’re bound to meet him in a competition, right?”

He sighed. “You don’t want to introduce me to your friends, don’t want to be seen skating with me… Yuuri, I’m beginning to think you’re ashamed of me.”

That got him a glare. “Oh no, am I that transparent?” Yuuri asked monotone.

“Yes. Yes, you are, and you hurt my feelings. But there’s one way to make it up to me, since you’re asking!”

“I didn’t.”

“Come skate with me.”

His hand had never left Yuuri’s arm, and he felt it tense up again.

_Come on, say yes._

Skating had never been something to share. It was his, only his, the only thing he’d always loved, always would love. The only thing he had. Sure, he skated on the same ice as his rink mates back home, and with other skaters in the warmups at competitions, but that was not sharing. They just happened to be near each other while skating. Victor had never skated _with_ someone – unless you counted the times he let Maccachin play on the ice with him after everyone else had left (Yakov could never find out); not even when he’d dated that American skater in the off-season. They could’ve gone skating in those three months they’d been together, and yet somehow Victor had never even considered it. If he gave away his one love, what would he be left with?

_Please, just say yes._

“Okay.”

He blinked. “Yes?”

Yuuri nodded shyly. “Yes.”

Victor stared as Yuuri sat down on the nearest bench and put on the skates Yuuko had brought him – deftly, quickly, used to the movements. Then he stood up and made a face.

“What?”

“Borrowed skates.”

Victor shook his head sympathetically. “It’s never the same.”

Yuuri walked over to the entrance of the rink and Victor automatically skated along, watching eagerly while he took off the guards with experienced hands and left them on the barrier.

“Um, Victor?”

“Yes?!”

“You’re staring.”

“Oh. Oh, I’m sorry!”

He went for a lap around the rink, kicking himself for being too anxious and carefully turning his back to him so Yuuri could do as he pleased. When he eventually turned around Yuuri was already on the ice, gliding easily with that natural poise that Victor now understood and could see in every little thing he did, and a pleased smile that was just too unfair, really, and made Victor’s chest feel that much smaller. The fact that Yuuri didn’t have his glasses on just made it worse, he looked _too_ adorable, if slightly younger.

And now he was skating towards Victor, squinting a little at first and then smiling.

“Thought you’d never come,” Victor said in his best nonchalant voice, trying to ignore the violent thumping his heart was doing, “but look at you, stepping like a feather on the ice.”

Yuuri snickered as he skated by his side. “Yeah, except that there’s no music spinning around like a dice.”

“Oooh, so you _do_ know the lyrics!”

In one swift motion Yuuri turned around and started skating backwards in front of him – was he _actively_ trying to make Victor’s knees weak? Mission accomplished, then. Victor was quite sure that if he’d been rink mates with Yuuri when learning to skate he would’ve learned _nothing_. He’d have been too busy staring.

Yuuri shrugged with a small smile. “You can’t live with Phichit and not watch _The King and the Skater_ a thousand times. You end up learning the lyrics by osmosis.”

He seemed nostalgic when speaking of his friend, and for that one second there Victor was jealous of the Thai skater. He got to see Yuuri every day, hear him play, watch movies with him, talk to him whenever he felt like it. What was that like?

Victor answered something vague and noncommittal while his mind wandered. What would Domestic Yuuri be like in his own home, back in Detroit? Did he also take his shoes off at the door? Did he walk around barefoot or in socks? Did he make breakfast himself? (Yuuri was a bit useless in the mornings, he knew that already.) Did he have music playing while doing chores? Did he sing in the shower?

Yuuri in the shower.

The image _that_ conjured would’ve been more than welcome at any other time, but here on the ice it just made Victor’s feet bump into each other, and what hadn’t happened in years was suddenly happening too fast – he was falling.

But before he met the ice face-first Yuuri caught him and they were both falling, with Yuuri taking the brunt of the impact and being mercilessly crushed between rink and living legend.

Oh god.

Oh god oh god oh god, of all the possible scenarios that was _not_ how he’d visualized lying on top of Katsuki Yuuri.

Was he hurt? Had he hit his head? Did he have a concussion? How was his knee? _Oh god his knee_. Yuuri already had a serious injury, he didn’t need another! Victor sat up in a flash:

“Yuuri, Yuuri are you okay? Oh my god, I’m so, so sorry, are you okay?! How’s your knee?”

Yuuri blinked up at him, still lying flat on his back; he looked more baffled than hurt.

“My knee?”

“And your head, your neck, your back, are you _okay_?!”

“I’ve… been better, but… my knee is fine? And the rest too, I think.” He grunted a little and sat up as well, rubbing his neck. Then he took one look at Victor’s face and snorted. _Snorted_.

And then he was laughing.

And it was nothing like his usual, soft giggle or his sarcastic scoff either; it was sunny, unbridled, _real_ laughter that scrunched up his nose and shook his shoulders, a sound Victor had never heard before echoing through the rink. Was he laughing _with_ Victor, _at_ Victor? He had no idea. He didn’t care. That laughter was so warm it could probably melt the ice Victor was sitting on _and_ Victor himself.

Laughter he could easily see himself never getting tired of.

Victor smiled a little, relieved. “What?”

Yuuri waved his hand vaguely as if asking Victor to wait, trying to catch his breath, and then finally managed:

“It’s just, oh my god, I can’t believe I fell on my back and you asked me about my knee!”

“Yuuri, _honestly_.” He tried to pretend he was offended, but the chuckle that came out with his answer fooled no one, and Yuuri just laughed again.

“Really, I never thought that between me and the world champion, _I’d_ be the one skating better!”

Victor stood up with as much grace as he could (if there was still any left, after all that) and offered him his hands.

“Come on, Mr. I-Skate-Better-Than-The-World-Champion.”

Yuuri smiled and took his hands. He stood up and let one of Victor’s hands go so he could dust some of the ice off – but Victor kept his other hand in his, and it was all he could do not to pull him closer.

“Thank you. You know, for… saving me.”

Yuuri’s eyes grew big for a split second, and then he smirked, squeezing Victor’s hand.

“ _Saving you_? A bit exaggerated, but sure. Anytime, Mr. Living Legend.”

He glided backwards again, pulling Victor with him instead of letting go of his hand, to Victor’s immense relief. They started skating around the rink like that, facing each other and holding hands.

“So, tell me how exactly you managed to win five championships in a row, if _this_ is how you skate.”

“Ahhh, very simple! You see, it all started when I used my personal charms on the ISU people.”

“Hmmm, no, I don’t think that’s it.”

One quick move and now Victor was also skating backwards, side by side with Yuuri and still not letting go of that hand. Skating with him was _easy_. It felt natural, and it felt right.

He could do this all day. Every day.

 

~

 

They only left the Ice Castle when Yuuri’s stomach complained loudly, to Yuuri’s infinite embarrassment. But just because Victor’s stomach was more discreet about it didn’t mean it was complaining any less. Lunch time had long passed them by, so they made a detour and stopped at a stall at the fish market, where Yuuri chose some food on sticks for them.

With Maccahin happily trotting along, they roamed around town eating their makeshift lunch and talking about a bit of everything. Victor heard about Yuuri’s many (mis)adventures with Phichit in Detroit, and in return told him some embarrassing Yurio stories. But mostly, Victor wanted to listen rather than talk; it wasn’t an everyday occurrence for Yuuri to talk for such long periods of time with so little prompting, and Victor was just basking in it. And if he wasn’t much of a talker, he also wasn’t the kind who looked at you while talking. He’d look ahead, or at his own hands, at the ground, at Victor’s shoulder or hands or hair. Occasionally into Victor’s eyes, sending an undercurrent of electricity humming under his skin and leaving him restless when those brown eyes left his again.

When they walked by the beach Victor stopped for a minute: the sun had already begun to set, and the ocean was just a mosaic of different shades of blue, dark orange and touches of pink seeping in, with a few golden clouds tearing the horizon. Something he’d heard someone say when he was a child came back to him now: it was the world going to sleep. He thought again of how much the Hasetsu beach reminded him of St. Petersburg – and realized with a slight mental jolt that he hadn’t thought of St. Petersburg in a while. He hadn’t been thinking of home this entire past month.

Well, no, that was not true. He _had_ been thinking of home, just not… of St. Petersburg.

Yuuri’s voice roused him from his thoughts.

“Let’s see it up close, while there’s still light.”

He was smiling at Victor from a couple of steps ahead, flicking his head towards the beach.

They took off their shoes, stuffing them into Victor’s duffel bag along with Yuuri’s jacket, rolled the hem of their pants and went down a couple of rickety wooden steps leading to the sand; Maccachin was already at the edge of the water, barking excitedly and startling a teenage girl. By the time they settled on a spot to sit, both Macca and girl were already playing in the water, while most people around them left the beach and daylight died fast on them.

“Macca really likes water, huh? Do you usually take her to the beach?”

Victor hummed. “Not as often as I should, no.” He didn’t elaborate, though, that was a sore point for him: he couldn’t always give Maccachin the attention she deserved, a thought that never failed in bringing a dull ache in his chest.

Yuuri didn’t press him for more comments and they fell in a comfortable silence, watching the dog and the girl run around each other. She saw them and waved, asking something in Japanese; Yuuri laughed and answered, and the girl happily went back to playing with Macca. Victor looked sideways at Yuuri and considered his options.

 

Pros:

  1. Yuuri seemed relaxed and content;
  2. there was no one around them, no one to hear their conversation;
  3. it was high time he did it.



 

Cons:

  1. Yuuri was too unpredictable, there was no telling how he’d react.



 

“Yuuri, may I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

Victor took a deep breath and tried to keep his voice as casual as possible.

“Where did you learn to pole dance?”

Silence. He looked at Yuuri out of the corner of his eye.

He was frozen. Wasn’t even breathing.

Victor cleared his throat. “And tango and breakdance too, for that matter.”

Yuuri finally turned to him with a horrified look on his face. “W-what? How… when… where did you… what?”

“You don’t… remember the banquet at all, do you?”

“What banquet?!”

He sighed. “Ah, Yuuri.”

And he told him. How he’d wanted to talk to Yuuri but hadn’t known how, the sudden dance-offs with Yurio, Christophe and finally with Victor, and the moment Celestino had left with him. He was trying his best to make it all sound like not that big of a deal (which it really wasn’t), but could _feel_ Yuuri’s eyes glued to him in shock.

When he was done, all he heard was a light moan and a soft thud; he looked: Yuuri was lying on the sand, his hands covering his face.

Was he mad? Was he crying?

Then a muffled “Please tell me you’re joking.”

Victor gave a small laugh. “Sorry, _solnyshko_ , I’m afraid I’m not.” He’d already used the pet name, might as well embrace it for good. It was terribly accurate anyway.

Yuuri sat back up slowly, looking more stunned than anything else.

“No wonder I woke up with my knee in _flames_ the next day,” he mumbled. “You’re telling me that the entire figure skating community saw me naked?...”

“Half-naked”, Victor corrected, “and… well, the _entire_ figure skating community… that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but… a lot of people, yeah!” He finished with a bright smile. Yuuri moaned again.

“Victor, why didn’t you _tell me_? Why did _no one_ tell me?! Why does no one tell me anything?!”

“How could we know you didn’t remember?”

“ _Why was there even a pole there?!_ ”

“Chris is a… a resourceful person.”

A third moan, followed by some frantic mumbling about him being just like his father. Victor had a hard time picturing the quiet Mr. Katsuki as a drunk party-animal, but that was also true about Yuuri.

“Now what?”

“Now you’ll have to accept that all the skaters there envy your dancing skills, that’s all.”

“ _Victor…_ ”

“And that Chris might want a rematch in the future, he’s _very_ proud of his pole dancing, you know. Oh, he probably still has the video!”

Yuuri squeaked. “ _What video_?!”

“Of your pole dance-off! Yurio filmed it in Chris’ phone.”

“Oh my god, I can’t believe I pole danced half-naked _in front of a minor_ and there’s a video of it, I should be arrested!” He seemed at the verge of a short-circuit. Then his eyes grew impossibly big and he gasped. “Is that why Yurio hates me?!”

“Pff, he doesn’t hate you. But… yeah, kinda.”

Yuuri buried his face in his hands again, mumbling things in Japanese Victor was happy he couldn’t understand. He was too glad to bother – not glad that Yuuri was in agony, of course, but glad he wasn’t mad at him.

“So where _did_ you learn all that? You said you used to dance, but…”

Yuuri sighed. “I went to an arts school, I … I did ballet,” he half mumbled that last part. “My teachers recommended that I take other styles, to expand my range, so… I tried different kinds of dance? I liked ballroom and breakdance the most, so I stuck with them. And then I… had my injury, and that was it.”

“And they also had pole dancing there? How _avant-guarde_ of them.”

Yuuri finally laughed again, even if it was just a little.

“No, _that_ was Phichit! Celestino told him training in something other than ballet would improve his repertoire on the ice, so he chose pole dancing for… _some reason_ I’m still trying to understand, and he asked me to come along. And the rest is history,” he concluded with an amused smile.

 _History indeed_ , Victor smiled to himself.

“But Victor, I… I can’t believe you took advantage of me when I was drunk.”

Victor felt his blood freeze in his veins, his heart dropping all the way to his knees a thousand miles per hour.

 _No_.

“Yuuri, no! No, I just… we _danced_ , that’s all! You can ask anyone, ask Yurio! Ask Celestino! I –”

Yuuri snorted.

“Yuuri, _c’mon_!”

“I’m sorry but Yurio is right, you're  _too_ easy! I can’t help it, it’s irresistible!”

“Huh. So you’re saying _I’m_ irresistible?”

“That’s so not what I said.”

As deadpan as his voice was, Victor could still distinguish that familiar red rising all the way up his neck and onto his face, even with the sunlight fading around them.

“Yuuri, I’ve told you before, that is _not_ how you should talk to your favorite figure skater.”

“You’re not my favorite skater.”

“Fine, your inspiring muse, then.”

Yuuri looked at him, trying not to smile. “My what?”

“Your muse, obviously.”

“You’re… not that either.”

Victor let out a loud, frustrated sigh. “Has anyone ever told you you’re very difficult to work with? If I’m not your favorite skater and I’m not your muse – which I still don’t believe –, what do you want me to be then?”

The question was not meant to be taken seriously, but Yuuri turned thoughtful at that, watching the girl walk towards them with Maccachin on her heels. He stood up, dusting the sand off his pants, and looked down straight into Victor’s eyes.

“You can just keep on being Victor. That’s more than good enough.”

He then turned around to talk to the girl, who seemed to be basically “returning” Maccachin, and Victor was grateful; he had no idea what his own face looked like right now.

When the girl waved them goodbye and left, Yuuri offered him a hand.

“Let’s go?”

Victor looked at that hand, at that quiet question, an invitation to a dance that was nothing like the tango, and he took it without a second thought.

But as they left the beach and made their way back home in silence again, Victor allowed himself to take the lead back from Yuuri for one last moment. He was still brimming with that restless energy that just wouldn’t wear off, like he was about to vibrate out of his skin, and now he was slowly sliding his fingers through Yuuri’s, gently, hoping – and it felt like skating with him, felt like dancing with him. It felt right. The way his chest hurt when Yuuri laced their fingers together with certainty felt right, and he never wanted it to stop.

 

* * *

 

Yuuri’s heart was pounding in his ears all the way back home.

Why did it _feel_ right? It couldn’t possibly be right.

The truth was that he was becoming more and more selfish when it came to Victor. Every time he showed at his studio, smiled at Yuuri, touched him or called his name, Yuuri found himself wishing he could stretch that moment into eternity, save it in a box and bury it in the backyard, like he and Yuuko used to do with their money as kids. Then those moments would be his forever, and time wouldn’t be a problem.

Victor wouldn’t stay. He couldn’t stay, a thought that he insisted on holding on to in order to keep himself grounded, like a drowning man would hold on to a plank in the ocean – his own selfish, deluded wishes threatening to push him off that plank at every turn.

The reality of Victor’s hands in his, though, made it impossible for Yuuri not to dive in, not to want. Want those hands for himself, want more moments, want _more_.

Want more of Victor’s time.

Want Victor to stay.

He didn’t know how much time he had left – _Eros_ would be recorded tomorrow, so Victor had probably booked his plane ticket already – or when he’d see Victor again after that, but he knew one thing, at least.

When they passed by his studio Yuuri pulled Victor’s hand timidly and they stopped.

“Mmm? Yes, _solnyshko_?”

 _God_ , that was so unfair, did he really have to call him something in Russian? He had no idea what it meant, nor did he care; Victor’s voice was low and gentle every time he said it, making it sound intimate, and it was enough to make his head spin.

“Could you… would you mind hearing it?”

“Sure, no problem! Hearing what?”

It was hard to frown at that bright smile, but Yuuri tried nonetheless. “How can you say yes to something if you don’t even know what it is?”

Victor laughed it off. “Hearing what?”

“The, um, the piece. My piece. _Yuuri_.” He instinctively rolled his eyes at that stupid name, he _really_ had to change it, and soon. But Victor’s eyes widened a little and he squeezed Yuuri’s hand.

“Nothing would make me happier.”

Yuuri fished the key out of his pocket and they entered the studio; Victor gently extricated his hand out of Yuuri’s and took his usual place on the couch, while Maccachin lied at his feet. At the piano, Yuuri fumbled a little with the sheet music – more to have something to do with his hands than out of necessity, as he’d known his half-piece by heart for a couple of months now.

He stared at the sheet with his heart in his throat. He’d never shown it to anyone, never played it to anyone. Didn’t know if what he was doing made any sense.

But nothing about any of this made any sense, so he might as well.

He looked at Victor, and was rewarded with his favorite Victor smile. Victor had many smiles: the one Yuuri knew now was only for podiums and pictures; the bright, ruthless one he put on when he was about to be savage (“ _you haven’t brought that many medals to Russia yet, what makes you think you’re worth_ this _much trouble?_ ”. Damn. No wonder Yurio was annoyed at Victor more often than not); the happy, heart-shaped one that was disconcertingly adorable; the one he had for Maccachin (and sometimes for Yurio, on a good day).

And then there was that one, less flashy, warmer, full of something he couldn’t define but that riled up all those butterflies in his stomach all the same.

That was the smile Victor was giving him now ( _him_ , Katsuki Yuuri, of all people), and it was more than enough.

Yuuri started playing.

He was glad he was a composer instead of a writer, because he was sure he wouldn’t be able to put all those feelings into words like he could in notes. Music conveyed everything he wanted but still kept his secrets, and that piece was every bit of him he wanted to keep hidden.

Every note was about him, about the homesickness that had haunted him for the first years in Detroit, the initial frustration of not being fluent enough in the foreign language he’d needed, about every sleepless night spent tossing and turning and wishing he’d been anywhere else, the fear of losing his scholarship, the bitterness that followed him for years after his half-recovery. About having all the hopes of Japan pinned on him, only to watch them go down the drain.

About every time he’d curled up under the table in his dorm and cried until he felt his lungs would give out.

The piece didn’t last for very long, all he had was less than two minutes of music and an abrupt ending. He had no idea of where to go after that.

He finished and let his hands rest on the keys, he didn’t know what to do with them, much less of where to look. Or what to say. Should he say anything? Should he wait for a comment? But what could Victor say anyway? Should he inform him the piece was incomplete, had he mentioned that before? Surely he was able to tell? Should he –

“Excuse me, _solnyshko._ ”

Victor was sitting next to him now, adjusting his glasses for him with a gentle hand.

“Oh. Um, thanks.”

They were silent for a moment. Yuuri fidgeted with the cuff of his jacket instead of doing what he really wanted – asking Victor what he thought – while Victor scratched Macca behind her ears.

It was the skater who eventually broke the silence, still not taking his eyes off Maccachin.

“The piece is about you, then.”

“…Yes.”

“And what else?”

What else. It was about more than just Yuuri, and about nothing else. How could he express that?

“And about… fighting on your own.”

“I see.”

Silence.

[ _He hated it._ ]

“I… I know it’s not good, and it’s incomplete, of course, but –”

“It’s gorgeous.”

His voice was soft, quiet even in the silent studio, but with a calm energy running underneath it that clearly admitted no contestation.

“It’s gorgeous,” he repeated, as if trying to convince Yuuri, “but I wish it weren’t about you.”

Yuuri finally took his eyes off his jacket cuff and Victor mirrored him, taking his eyes off Maccachin and meeting Yuuri’s.

“What? Why?!”

“The melody is lonely.” Victor answered without missing a beat. Still softly, still absolutely sure of what he was saying.

“No wonder it’s incomplete,” he continued, turning his attention to the piano keys this time. “Fighting on your own… it only takes you so far, Yuuri. You can’t find new strength on your own.”

He stared at Victor. On your own.

Maybe he wasn’t really on his own. Maybe it didn’t have to be a solo.

(Except that it would have to be, because their hands were not intertwined now and Victor was leaving soon.)

He took in a sharp breath. “…Yeah. Yeah, maybe.”

Victor raised his eyes from the piano and, finding Yuuri staring at him intently, he huffed a breathless laugh and ran a hand through his hair. A distant part of Yuuri’s brain noticed him blushing but didn’t fully register it.

(When was he leaving? How much time did Yuuri still have?)

Victor looked at Yuuri’s hand resting on his leg and covered it with his own, his touch almost featherlight.

( _“Are you going back to Russia?”_. The question was right there, stuck in his throat.)

“Yuuri, will you compose the music for my free skate as well?”

“Yes.”

Wait, what?

“Music for… for your long skate, uh, free skate?” He swallowed. “The, um, the same theme?”

“‘Life and Love’? Yes. I wouldn’t trust anyone else with it.”

Yuuri’s favorite smile was there again, spreading warmth through every last bit of him. Music for one routine? He’d compose for ten hundred routines if it meant getting that smile from Victor. He nodded slowly, so afraid of sounding too excited that he almost whispered instead, unable to look away from Victor’s eyes.

“Yes. Of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOU GUYS. I'm very sorry for the late update! My initial idea was to update the fic every week, but I had to come to grips with the fact that it takes me between 10 to 15 days to write each chapter, so I'll stick to this time frame. But THIS chapter specifically was harder for me than the previous ones. I worked on it every. day. since I finished chapter 6, but nothing was coming out the way I wanted. It was truly an uphill battle. Hopefully the final result was okay.  
> So yeah, expect the next chapter in around 10 days, give or take. If it's any consolation, I write every day. I'm just really slow! XD
> 
> And speaking of slow: this burn has been MUCH slower than I thought it would be, jesus. Yuuri, honey, just... PLEASE.
> 
> Fun Fact: I'd forgotten that Javier Fernandez was using the Malagueña this season, and by the time I watched Worlds, the whole part about Victor having skated to it was already done, and I was like "oh... right." So it wasn't supposed to be a nod to real life, but now I guess it is? XD
> 
> Thank you guys so much for reading and encouraging me!! You don't know how uplifting your comments are! <3
> 
> A thousand thanks to my loyal beta, PenelopeUlyssea (who not only beta-reads but also listens to me whine about my own writing!) and [Useless_Reptile](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Useless_Reptile/pseuds/Useless_Reptile) (my source of Russian vocabulary!).


	8. Like the dawn (you woke the world inside of me)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should note Minami has been slightly aged in this fic, so I could still have him as both a fan of Yuuri's and a "rival" in their field (movie scores, basically).  
> Enjoy! ^_^

Yuuri fumbled around until he found his glasses on the nightstand; he put them on, hands moving more on instinct than anything else, and tried to locate the source of that infernal noise: it was coming from his computer desk. It took him a few more seconds to understand it was the alarm beeping.

Alarm. Why an alarm? Why so far from the bed? Surely it could wait until the sun was up? Why had he… oh.

Right. The recording session. Fukuoka. Taking the train.

But it was still dark outside…

Dammit.

 

~

 

He left the house with a piece of toast hanging from his mouth and one arm still trying to find his way into the jacket (a jacket which wouldn’t be necessary anymore in a couple of hours, and he already regretted bringing it). He could vaguely make out the sun rising from behind pink clouds and Hasetsu Castle in the distance; somewhere in the neighborhood a rooster was crowing – never a welcome sound to Yuuri’s night owlish ears.

The car keys were in his pocket (Mari would pick up the car at the station later), but instead of getting in he hesitated. He looked around, as if someone would magically appear and tell him what to do, but there was only himself. With a deep breath, he turned around and headed for his studio before he could change his mind.

He opened the door and hastily turned on the lights – realizing too late that they were too bright for someone who’d gotten dressed and gone out in the dark – and he spent almost a full minute covering his eyes and cursing himself. When he finally uncovered his face, blinking violently, he found what he’d come here for.

He picked up the envelope from the desk and opened it for what was probably the hundredth time.

_Dear Mr. Katsuki_

_It has become an annual tradition for the Kyushu Art Association to hold a concert to honor the accomplished artists in our region. As such, we would like to invite you to perform alongside the Kyushu Symphony Orchestra at this year’s KAA Summer Festival, at the Fukuoka Symphony Hall._

_The impact which your music has made in Japanese cinema history is undeniable, and as you are known as one of the best pianists and classical composers in Northern Kyushu, we would be honored to have you as a guest._

_The event is scheduled for July 20 th, and each guest is expected to perform three pieces. If you could accept our invitation, we would ask you to let us know by June 15th. We will, of course, be happy to pay a fee and cover any costs that you incur, such as traveling and lodging. We would like to have a response as soon as possible so that appropriate publicity can be arranged._

_Please contact Tokunaga Kazune at XXX-XXX-XXXX or e-mail kaaconcert2016@kaa.co.jp for additional details or RSVP._

_Thank you in advance for your consideration of this request._

_Sincerely,_

_Mashima Yoko_

_Director of the KAA Music Department_

 

Yuuri stared long and hard at the letter, but now thinking of Minami-kun’s email he’d received a few days before the official invitation from the KAA:

_Dear Katsuki-san:_

_How are you?! You probably haven’t received it yet BUT: the KAA is having their annual concert in July, and I was invited to play as a guest performer! Fujiwara-san too! I asked them if they’d invited you but they said no because you live in the US and I said you were back in Japan and they were excited and Mashima-san left right away to send you an invitation! They want you to play at the concert too! You’re going, right?! Everyone is dying to see you perform, you haven’t played here in so long! By the way, I’ll be playing YOUR arrangement of the_ Lohengrin, “In Fernem Land” _for piano, I’d love it for you to see it!!!_

 _I’ll see you on July 20_ _th_ then!

_Minami Kenjirou_

 

When he’d first read the e-mail Yuuri had been confused, why would they be meeting on July 20th?! It was only after receiving the official invitation a couple of days later that he understood: Minami-kun was taking for granted that Yuuri would accept the request and play at the event. Ugh, and he’d be playing Yuuri’s version of the _Lohengrin_ , straight from his dark past... He’d made the arrangement for “In Fernem Land” to enter the 17th Kyushu Classical Music Competition, some 4 or 5 years before, and the sixth place he’d gotten with it was not a pleasant memory. Nevertheless, it was his performance at that competition that had made Minami-kun approach him, only a teenager then, but already a fan for reasons Yuuri couldn’t begin to fathom.

He sighed with a half-smile: seeing Minami was always a bit… draining. He was full of energy and talent and potential, and his unabashed admiration just made Yuuri feel like a fraud. Like maybe someday he’d finally slip and the whole world would see him for what he was: a failure who tried way too hard at everything.

Except that he could still feel Victor’s hand on his last night, asking _him_ for his music. Victor Nikiforov, the one who, at only 16, had shown Yuuri how music and movement were inseparable. Indistinguishable. Yuuri had decided to spend the rest of his life trying to catch up to that lilac fairy on the ice, trying to create body music that would be just as beautiful. Denied that opportunity, he’d started doing the reverse: creating the illusion of movement with his music.

And now the one person whose movements surpassed everyone else’s wanted Yuuri’s music.

He opened his laptop and logged in to his e-mail account. He had an invitation and an (extremely enthusiastic) e-mail to answer.

 

* * *

 

“One more time, Yuri.”

Yuri was gasping for air with his hands on his knees, glaring at Lilia who was coolly watching him from outside the rink. _“One more time”_ , very easy for her to say, she was not the one skating!

Mila skated by him and snickered. “Tired already, Yura? I thought you had more stamina than that?”

“Shut up, you hag!”

“Yuri Nikolaevich, language.”

He growled, but didn’t answer. Lilia had this “thing”. _“A prima ballerina doesn’t use such unrefined words.”_

It was all fine for Yakov to bring in his ex-wife to choreograph Yuri’s free skate (apparently, she used to be in the Bolshoi? Also: the idea of Yakov having ever been married was one that disturbed him deeply), but did she have to annoy him about the kind of language he used too?!

But she was the one who’d choreographed Victor’s historical _Lilac Fairy_ short program, a routine that had helped Victor break his first record (which was still intact, no matter how hard Yuri had tried to break it in his junior division days), and that thought kept him going.

A few more rounds of him skating as best as he could and Lilia demanding more, until she gave up and waved vaguely, giving him permission to take a break. He left the rink and almost emptied an entire bottle of water in one go before checking his phone distractedly, his thoughts still on the free program.

The piece Lilia and Yakov had chosen for him was good. _The Angel of the Fire Festival_ was a pompous name, but the music was okay and it did fit in thematically with _Agape_ , so. But it was still not what he wanted.

Victor had been commissioning music for at least one of his programs every season for years, and it might not seem like it made a big difference, but it really, really did. One thing was to skate to music that already existed, composed based on someone else’s feelings and for someone else’s reasons. You had to adapt your own movements to it, find a way to convey the emotions and the story you wanted using the tools that music gave you – but a piece or a song composed _for you_? The music molded itself around _you_ , your feelings, your movement, making your skating truly one with the music - something hard to do when you were skating to a sonata some dead guy had composed centuries ago for some woman that had also died centuries ago.

Yakov, however, had always shut out his requests completely. Junior skaters and skaters debuting in the senior division didn’t need to have new (expensive) music made for them, Yuri could win with the music picked for him, all he had to do was practice. And this ban, unlike the one on quads, was much harder to ignore, as music cost money. Yuri could land quads now (not all of them, sure, but that was just a matter of time), but he still didn’t have music that reflected everything he could do – instead, he was forced to adapt to whatever piece was chosen for him. Forced to remain in Victor’s shadows, skating Victor’s choreography to music composed for Victor.

His phone dinged: new mail.

**Katsuki Yuuri > music**

Katsudon??

_Dear Yurio:_

(Goddammit, that was not his name)

_How are you? I hope practice is going fine, can’t wait to see your senior debut! Is it true you’re being choreographed by Lilia Baranovskaya?! Victor told me she’s Yakov’s ex-wife! O.O You’re so lucky, she’s a Legend! Most prima ballerinas nowadays can only dream about dancing like Baranovskaya. (Victor complained about her being a choreographer from hell, but if anyone can take it it’s you.)_

_I composed something that I thought you might be able to use. Yakov and Lilia have probably selected your music already, I’m sure it’s too late now, but just in case. I composed it for you after watching you skate, and just recorded it today. Feel free to use it whenever you want or not at all, but it’s yours. It’s attached below, give it a listen and see if it’s something you think you might want to skate to._

_I’ll see you at the GPF in December! ^_^_

_Katsuki Yuuri_

 

Yuri stared at the message in disbelief, and finally looked at the attached file: **Piano Concerto in…**

He went through the pockets of his jacket in a frenzy until he found his headphones and plugged them in.

**Piano Concerto in B Minor: Allegro Appassionato**

The very first notes startled him: they were intense _._  Fast, too, you barely had time to breathe. It got even faster and grander when the other instruments came in and he held his breath a bit. Then a bit quieter, but deceptively so, still energetic and demanding before it rose again, wave after wave yanking one’s breath away with its brutal speed (could that be a step sequence?). Impressive, exhausting – and then suddenly gentler, giving you room for air; it was like… waltzing on clouds. Elegant, but slowly increasing its momentum again, always claiming your full attention because it wasn’t done with you just yet, and it came crashing down on you with a waterfall of notes. It was serious, strong, but also light and fresh. And beautiful.

Was that really Katsudon’s music?! He was usually so soft! (Wait, no, he’d also played _Eros_ right in front of him, hadn’t he? _Eros_ was anything but soft.)

_“Better to use something that can showcase all of your strengths, right?”_ _“I came to watch you skate. When you’re ready!”_

He read the e-mail one more time.

_“I composed it for you after watching you skate”_

That piece was his. His to skate to, and no one else’s. For him to cast his own shadow with.

“Yuri, break’s over, back on the ice.” Yakov barked at him from somewhere.

He turned to his coach and Lilia with a smirk.

“Slight change of plans.”

 

* * *

 

Victor huffed good-humoredly and leaned against the rink wall, locking his cell phone now that his FaceTime with Yakov was over. “Yakov’s been so cranky lately.”

From his seat at the bleachers, Yuuri raised a brow. “Would that have anything to do with the fact you’re in Japan instead of Russia?”

Victor’s face lit up instantly, as if Yuuri had suddenly found The Answer. “Yes! Yuuri, you’re so smart!”

The composer just rolled his eyes: Yuuri would be in an awful mood too if his star pupil and golden boy of Russia suddenly dropped everything and went to another continent to ask some unknown composer for music, and then didn’t come back for almost two months. Not that Victor really needed someone to explain this to him: that was just Victor’s personal brand of sass. He was obviously deflecting, and Yuuri certainly wouldn’t be the one pressing the issue. He stood up.

“Well, I’m going back to the studio, so…”

“If you’re going then I’m going too.” Victor replied without missing a beat.

Oh look, there it was: that flutter in his heart that came uninvited every time Victor said or did something to imply he’d rather be with Yuuri than do anything else. Yuuri kept telling himself not to get carried away: Victor was obviously an affectionate person, and with him being in a foreign country away from everything he knew, and Yuuri being the most interesting thing around (a concept that would be too farfetched to work with, if the bar in Hasetsu wasn’t so low), it was only natural for him to stick by Yuuri’s side and direct all his affection towards him. Under normal circumstances he’d have better things to do and more interesting people to talk to, without a doubt, and Yuuri would fly so under his radar it wouldn’t even blip.

But none of that cold logic stopped his heart from beating like a hummingbird’s wings when Victor smiled at him.

The Russian gathered his things, put on his trainers and they left the Ice Castle, with Maccachin leading the way, Victor happily chatting and Yuuri smiling by his side, allowing himself to forget realities he knew he’d have to deal with later.

They hadn’t held hands again since the day of the beach, and Yuuri wished he had the courage to try and do it again – on the other hand, watching Victor gesture excitedly while talking never failed to make him smile. And he was one expressive talker: for every sentence there was a gesture, a facial expression, a tone of voice; it wasn’t just his words that conveyed his message, Victor used all of himself – sometimes better than his actual words – to communicate, and Yuuri had no option but to watch in fascination.

Not that he had ever stopped watching. Victor had skated the _Lilac Fairy_ routine more than a decade ago and Yuuri hadn’t been able to look away ever since. But this was different. Lilac Fairy Victor lived on the ice – distant, unattainable, a little otherworldly and impossible. The Victor walking next to him now was more than that: he was real. Palpable. He existed beyond the posters in his bedroom, beyond records and gold medals, a Victor that Yuuri could actually touch if he so much as stretched his hand.

They got to the studio before Yuuri could gather said courage, though; as he opened the door, Victor waited for some sort of invitation to come in, like he always did, and it never got less endearing. Yuuri smiled.

“Come on in. I’ve got something to show you.”

Victor promptly followed him, dropping his bag on the floor and sitting on the arm of the couch for a change, his feet adorably dangling a bit off the ground; he smiled expectantly, like a child who’d been promised a surprise, and Yuuri laughed a little at the eagerness.

“It’s not anything special, but… well, I finished the melody for your music, and I thought you might like to hear it.”

“For my free skate?!” Victor’s eyes flew wide. “Already?! It’s only been five days! Yuuri, you’re a genius!”

“I’m not a genius, it’s just that... some pieces come together faster than others. And you haven’t even listened to it yet!”

“I know it’s gonna be brilliant,” Victor replied, with the sincerest voice.

Yuuri shook his head vaguely, trying to will the blush away, and sat at the piano.

“This is not the whole thing, though,” he warned, “I’m thinking of a whole different arrangement for it. Something… something more alive. This is just for you to have an idea.”

Victor nodded anxiously, so Yuuri took a deep breath and played.

“Life and Love”. Half of it was covered with _Eros_ : it was passion and ardor, the kind of love that made your heart beat faster and your head spin, and it was a piece that allowed Victor to craft a technically difficult program (which he was clearly already doing). So for the FS music Yuuri had wanted to do the extreme opposite: a piece that could showcase Victor’s unrivaled musicality on the ice, and something that spoke of a sweeter kind of love, the kind that made your heart feel warm and at peace. That made you feel safe.

 _Agape_ was about the Victor in his posters, his personal lilac fairy; _Eros_ was Victor’s voice going low, asking him what it was that he desired, his fingers brushing against Yuuri’s. But this one was the Victor that gestured while talking without even noticing, who cried with an animated movie, who called Maccachin his best friend and had long, happy conversations with Yuuri’s parents using a mixture of simplified English, broken Japanese and smiles. That was the [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zj8ifxdPeGc&list=PLYjq82OJ8oKI-7DgWwghs0UhXIck89nHi&index=11) he was playing now.

A song about life. About morning runs, sunsets on the beach and night strolls, unexpected snow in the spring and happy dogs knocking you down, about summer nights of fireworks and fireflies and the warmth of holding someone’s hand. Something more than a night of desire that would fade away with morning; something everlasting.

When the piano was silent again, Yuuri looked at Victor with a question ready to fall from his lips – but didn’t ask it: Victor had his eyes closed and one hand to his chest.

So he waited with a small smile, his heart threatening to beat out of his chest with each silent second. After a full minute of quiet, Victor’s eyes fluttered open. “This is…” he sighed. “Perfect. Thank you, Yuuri, I love it.”

“I’m… I’m still working on it, though, there are the lyrics and all…”

“You’re writing lyrics?!” Victor gaped at him and Yuuri hurried to explain, hands flailing wildly:

“I mean, they’re not _good_ , not at all, I’m just… like… jotting down some ideas? I don’t normally write lyrics, I…” The truth was too ridiculous for him to say out loud, _I’m horrible with words_ , so he skipped the core of his explanation and went straight to the conclusion. “I need to talk to Ogino, he’ll fix them for me.”

“Hmm, he’s the lyricist you work with, yes?”

Yuuri stared. “How do you know about Ogino?”

Victor was mildly surprised, as if the answer were obvious. “Katsuki Yuuri, I swear you need to use your computer for something else besides music. What do you think the internet is for?”

“You googled Ogino?” Yuuri frowned in confusion, but Victor laughed.

“Yuuri, please, I googled you!”

“What, why?! When?!”

Victor had googled him. Victor had typed, actually typed, “Katsuki Yuuri” into a Google search bar and clicked on some of those results. There were articles. Reviews. Images. Videos. All those articles criticizing his score for _The Lake by the Stars_ , all the awards he’d failed to win, all the reviews of his performance in New York – the videos of him torturing the keys of the Steinway piano in front of everyone and trying not to cry. Victor had seen all of those, seen what a walking disaster he was, and all of that after Yuuri had made a fool of himself and danced semi-naked in front of everyone that mattered in the ISU. Oh god how did breathing even work and why did life hate him so much? Would Victor be too grossed out if Yuuri threw up right there?

“Yuuri, don’t get me wrong, I had a blast dancing with you at the banquet, but you can’t think I’d hire someone based only on that!”

Right. Yeah, that made sense, Victor needed more than Sara’s references to ask him to compose something, but still. Still. All his failures were easily found online. It was easy to pretend he wasn’t a total failure when he thought Victor didn’t know. Now, though…

Victor cocked his head. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I just…” He chewed the inside of his cheek, but pretending he wasn’t troubled was a ship that had long sailed, so he gave up with a dry chuckle and ducked his head to avoid Victor’s eyes. “I can only imagine what you found.”

“Yeah, there were so many accomplishments I was a bit intimidated, actually.”

Yuuri’s eyes snapped from the piano to Victor. “What?”

“Well, yes. All those awards?”

“You mean all the ones I didn’t win?” Yuuri scoffed.

“I mean all the ones you did win. Not a few, if I remember correctly.”

“Victor…” he sighed. “Don’t coddle me, don’t… don’t pretend you didn’t find all my shortcomings on your search.” He must have seen or read about his awful performance in New York at least, it was still on the first page of the search results, even after all those months.

He stared at the piano keys again, and heard Victor humming and getting off the couch to leisurely walk around the studio.

“Being nominated for an Oscar, a Golden Globe and other international awards, is that what you call a shortcoming? Wow, your standards are incredibly high,” Victor chuckled.

Yuuri frowned. That was not funny. He’d been nominated, true, but he hadn’t won any of them. He’d been the first Japanese composer to be nominated in years, and he’d managed to not win a single one of those international awards.

Victor stopped and pointed at a couple of trophies on the shelf above the table. “Tell me, what are these?”

He was so caught off-guard by that that his answer amounted to nothing but babbling that not even he himself understood; Victor smiled.

“Yuuri, I’m fairly sure that’s not any language I speak. What are these.”

“…Japanese Academy Awards,” he muttered.

“For…?”

“Outstanding Achievement in Music.” How Victor could make out what he was mumbling was nothing short of a miracle.

“And you’ve got _two_ of them?”

“Yes.”

Victor smiled again and said nothing, and that silence just felt like Victor had proved a Point.

“Look, I know, but still, it doesn’t…”

“How many medals do I have?”

Well, of all the abrupt segues. “… What?”

“Fine,” he huffed and rolled his eyes, “I know, I’m not your ‘favorite skater’! But you’ve been watching figure skating for some years, right?” Yuuri nodded, still bewildered by the sudden change of topic. “Well, I’ve been in the senior division for 10 years. That means Grand Prix, Nationals, European and Worlds, not to mention three Olympic Games. So tell me: did I win all of them?”

Yuuri shook his head, wide-eyed. “No. You didn’t.”

“That’s because sometimes I won,” he nodded at the trophies, “and sometimes I lost. Sometimes I fell or underperformed. One time I injured my leg trying to land a quad flip, had to sit the entire season out. No one is brilliant all the time.” Then he smiled brightly. “Not even you. What matters is what you do after you don’t win, right?”

Yuuri had no answer for that – had Victor Freaking Nikiforov just compared himself to Yuuri?! – and Victor took his stunned silence as a cue to cheerfully leave, having clearly won that round. He grabbed his bag from the floor and winked as he passed.

“Looking forward to those lyrics!” And just like that he was gone.

The warmth of summer nights. Right. More like a whirlwind, and Yuuri could barely catch his breath. Every time Victor walked in something seemed to shift in the stale air of the studio, and when he left, nothing was in the place it used to be.

When he left, there was always music in Yuuri. And movement. He was incapable of standing still after Victor had passed by. He had to move, or he’d never catch up to that wind that played his heart as if there were strings on it.

Maybe there were.

…Maybe that was what was missing.

 

~

 

Yuuri had no idea of the time, only that it’d definitely been hours since Mari had dropped by and demanded he come have dinner because it was getting late. He’d gobbled down some food and hurried back to the studio, and hadn’t seen anyone since.

Because he finally knew where he was going and he played it, the music flowing effortlessly now.

_[Yuuri](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y2JhKYQLodM)._

If this was his story, then he should tell all of it, the good and the bad, with the only words he knew. The moment when his own feet had betrayed him and his dreams had been yanked from under them, all the moments he’d cried himself to sleep, all the times he’d been unsure of where to go. All those days when he’d felt he couldn’t move, when he’d been sure he’d failed everyone. When he wondered if he shouldn’t quit making music altogether.

All the loneliness.

And the moment he’d turned to music as his only crutch and started walking again. Limping. All the times he’d decided to keep going anyway, even if he didn’t know in which direction, because trying to move was still better than standing still. Slowly, unsteadily, but moving nonetheless.

And the moment when everything had changed without him realizing it.

 _“I’d like you to compose a piece about love for my short program_. _”_

The moment when it’d become more than a solo (and it would have to be more than a duo, wouldn’t it?).

 _“My Agape and Eros wouldn’t be possible without you.”_ If he was adding another instrument, there could be only one.

( _“Katsudon, you better get it done fast!”._ And that extra something that made the melody pick up the pace, something that demanded where the violin only suggested).

 _“What do you want me to be, then?”_ A violin patiently warming its way into the melody while the piano went in circles, both playing somewhat different melodies – until the violin gently took the lead and uplifted him, giving him a direction. Giving him something to long for.

( _“And you! Eat!”_ Something that tapped an impatient foot at the other two.)

 _“You can’t find new strength on your own.”_ The violin and the piano finally meeting halfway and their melodies blending together.

( _“You… play this? It’s just a box!”_ Percussion discreetly dancing in the wake of the piano and the violin, seamlessly blending its music with theirs.)

 _“Life and love? Yes. I wouldn’t trust anyone else with it.”_ Making it soar.

And suddenly, only the piano again, while the rest faded away from him as he knew they were supposed to do. Leaving the piano to play his lonely melody one more time.

Lonely, but not as lost as before. Even if the melody went back to its beginning, it didn’t have to be the same. It had a direction, it had places it wanted to go, even if it couldn’t get there on its own.

It could soar if you watched it closely.

And maybe, just maybe, it didn’t have to remain a solo until the end. Maybe there could be a violin quietly coming back, the percussion barging in one more time, the melody rising and becoming the best version of himself. The piece would have to end, but that melody would go on and on.

And he’d already decided what to call it.

 

* * *

 

Victor came back from his morning practice by himself. He was used to waking Yuuri up to go running with him – but that ‘Please do not disturb’ sign had been hanging on the studio door the whole day yesterday, and when Victor had gone to sleep, there’d been no signs of Yuuri having come out of there (that is, after he’d come out for less than 10 minutes, swallowed some food and called it “dinner”). Now the studio was empty; Mari would probably have to wake Yuuri up for lunch.

After a shower, Victor stretched on his bed with Maccachin on top of him, and lazily went through his emails and messages. Apparently, lots of people had sent him messages while he’d been in the shower: Yurio, Georgi, Chris, an audio from Mila, a couple of missed calls from Yakov…

He opened Yurio’s.

**13:00 [Yuri Plisetsky]**

I’ll see you in Barcelona, since you’re obviously never coming back to Russia

 

Barcelona?

**13:02 [Chris Giacometti]**

See you in Skate America, _chéri_ ♥

 

Skate America?

Victor hurried to open the ISU website and stared: the Grand Prix assignments were out.

The beginning of the season was officially here, and he’d been assigned to Skate America in October and the Rostelecom Cup in November. No one he knew in particular in Rostelecom (there was that Kazakh skater, Otabek, who’d gotten bronze at Worlds; not much of a talker, though), but at least he’d get to see Chris at Skate America. Also Yuuri’s friend, Phichit Chulanont. It would be an opportunity (…for what exactly he didn’t know. But it was something).

And then Barcelona. Well, assuming he would qualify for the final. Which… was not really a problem, if he was being honest with himself. Hadn’t been a problem for the last seven or eight years. Sure, that was not what he was supposed to tell the press: he was supposed to talk about the competition being hard this year, about being nervous but wanting to do the best he could… he had the speech down pat at this point. And none of that was a lie, it was just that he also felt that qualifying (and winning) hadn’t been as exciting or fulfilling as it used to be.

Year after year he’d smiled at the crowds, skated his programs, emulated whatever emotion the routine was supposed to make you feel, but he couldn’t remember the last time there’d been something real behind those smiles and the emotions he painted on the ice. Just a beautiful, empty doll who’d managed to win season after season.

He wasn’t that Victor anymore.

He was living now. Living in a house where there was always noise and movement when he woke up in the morning, full of people to have breakfast with and talk to; where he was invariably greeted with genuine smiles and affection even though he couldn’t bring them any medals. Living in a city that was as different from St. Petersburg as he could conceive, but that already felt like home somehow; a city where the store owners and fishermen knew him by name and waved when he ran by, and no one asked for his autograph or an interview. For them, he wasn’t Victor Nikiforov, World Champion and Living Legend; yes, they knew he was famous, because of the reporters that had shown up in Hasetsu back in May, but they didn’t care. For them, he was simply Victor. Welcome there because he clearly adored the pride and joy of their town, Katsuki Yuuri, as much as they did.

Welcome there not because of his medals and records, but because he was part of someone else’s life, a notion as foreign to him as Hasetsu itself – and as heartwarming.

This Victor was a matryoshka doll. If you opened him you’d find more versions of him inside – an inspired Victor, one who laughed every day, who knew what a family felt like and at the heart of it all, you’d find Yuuri.

Yuuri, who’d brought dawn to Victor’s night once upon a December, and more meaning to his entire life in those two months than anyone or anything else had in 27 years; who was both a tango and a waltz, and the only music Victor wanted to skate to. If given half a chance, Victor would probably spend the rest of his life skating to Yuuri’s smile.

A chance which would be hard to get if he were in another continent altogether.

His phone vibrated in his hand: Yakov. Of course. They both knew it was time for him to stop ignoring the going-back-to-Russia issue, but he rejected the call. He’d call him back when he was prepared to have that conversation (when would that be?). As the screen went back to the ISU page he still had open, he finally noticed something.

** Skate America: ** **21.10 – 23.10.2016, Detroit, MI (USA)**

 **Skate Canada International : 28.10 – 30.10.2016, ** **Mississauga, ON (CAN)**

**Audi Cup of China : 04.11 – 06.11.2016, Beijing (CHN)**

**NHK Trophy: 11.11 – 13.11.2016, Sapporo (JPN) **

**Trophée de France : 18.11 – 20.11.2016, Paris (FRA)**

**Rostelecom Cup : 25.11 – 27.11.2016, ** **Moscow (RUS)**

 

The ISU Grand Prix of Figure Skating Final will be organized for the 6 best ranked Men, Ladies, Pairs and Ice Dance Couples in: 

**Barcelona, Spain**

**From December 8 to December 11, 2016**

 

Skate America would be in Detroit. Yuuri lived in Detroit. Yes, he was here in Hasetsu now, but he’d _said_ he lived in Detroit, right? Would he… would he be back home by October? He was a fan of figure skating, and his best friend was going to be in Skate America as well, could Yuuri be possibly convinced to be there? That shouldn’t be too difficult. Maybe he could even… or would that be too much to hope for? 

It was worth a shot. Yuuri was worth all the shots. He called Yakov.

 

~

 

Yakov sighed. “That’s easy enough. Anything else?”

“No, that’s all!”

“Even for Barcelona? Aren’t we over confident, you haven’t even been training properly,” was the gruff answer from the other end of the line. Then Yakov’s voice suddenly softened, abandoning all pretense of grumpiness. “And now you’re coming home, right Vitya?”

That pang that went through Victor’s heart was just unfair: Yakov rarely called him that. He was usually very careful to keep their relationship strictly student-coach when it came to skating. ‘Vitya’ blurred those lines, it showed the father figure who cared behind the coach who yelled, and it tugged at Victor’s heartstrings.

“…Yes. Give me a couple of weeks.”

 

~

 

He looked at the flight options on his phone screen, searching for the latest possible date. The minute Yuuri had the new piece recorded Victor would have to start training under the right supervision and working on his free skate; not having a FS routine this late in June was really playing fast and loose with his career. And it was all his fault, really, what top skater decides to have a song made for them in the middle of June?!

…Should it worry him that he’d do it all over again if it meant spending all that time with Yuuri?

Yuuri, who... had just said his name? He looked up: they’d just finished lunch, and the Katsukis had gone back to serving their guests, while Mari and Yuuri talked in Japanese, too fast for him to keep up with. But Victor was sure his name had just been thrown in there. She seemed to be insisting on something, while Yuuri nervously refused.

Mari saw him watching and decided to get Victor as an ally in her battle:

“You can go with Yuuri?”

“Sure! Where?” He looked from one to the other, Mari her calm, unflappable self and Yuuri looking down at the floor.

“Fukuoka.”

“Of course! To record the song?” Funny, he’d thought Yuuri usually went to Fukuoka by himself, like he’d done a couple of weeks ago to get _Eros_ recorded. But Yuuri just shook his head tightly, still avoiding his eyes, and it was Mari again who answered in her thick accent:

“No, the concert. In July.”

Victor’s mind jolted. Concert in July? What concert in July?!

Yuuri sighed. “Victor, don’t worry, I know you can’t go, no one has to go, really, I –”

“Someone will go,” Mari cut him off firmly. “We can’t, so Victor will go, right Victor?”

“What concert?”

Mari frowned at him, and then at Yuuri. “You didn’t tell him?”

Yuuri shook his head again. “Nee-chan, he doesn’t have to –” Mari immediately ignored him, turning to Victor once again.

“Yuuri will play in Fukuoka. July 20. Here,” she took her cell phone out of her pocket (while Yuuri grumpily mumbled something in Japanese), typed something and showed a website to Victor. The first thing he saw was a picture of Yuuri at a piano, lots of kanji all around and an enormous date in golden letters: **2017.07.20**. He stared at it and Mari smiled a little smugly. Then she clicked on the English option and Victor was looking at a list:

 

** Must-see events **

  * **Fukuoka Tenjin Takiginoh 2016**



         June 30 (Thur) [Starting Time] 18:30

  * **Guarneri Trio Prague**



         July 12 (Tue) [Starting Time] 19:00

  * **Kyushu Art Association Summer Festival**



         July 20 (Wed) [Starting Time] 19:00

 

He gently took the phone from her and clicked on the last link.

 

**July 20 (Wed) [Starting Time] 19:00**

**Kyushu Art Association Summer Festival**

  * **Venue:** Fukuoka Symphony Hall
  * **Performers:** Yuuto Omiki, Hikaru Fujiwara, Kenjirou Minami, Yuuri Katsuki and the Kyushu Symphony Orchestra
  * **Program:** Prokofiev: “Suite No 2 Montague and Capulets” from “Romeo and Juliet”, etc.
  * **Tickets:** S Seat: ¥6,000  
             A Seat: ¥5,000  
             B Seat: ¥4,000 (Students: ¥1,500)



 

Yuuri would play at a concert. With an orchestra.

He nodded furiously and gave her back her phone. “Yes, I’m definitely going!”

She nodded back, unsurprised. It was obvious she’d expected no other answer, despite Yuuri’s vehement protests. He couldn’t help thinking that Mari was the very opposite of her brother sometimes – she saw things very, very clearly.

“Good. You go in the morning, come back the next day,” was all she had to say before leaving with the dishes in her hands.

Victor turned to Yuuri, who seemed to be doing his best in order to mutate into a beet, if the color on his face was any indicator. He smiled.

“A concert, huh?”

“It’s… not a big deal …” he mumbled.

 _You’re the face of the event on the site_ was what Victor desperately wanted to say, but he had a feeling that would do the opposite of putting Yuuri at ease. So instead he settled for a simple “Well, I’m looking forward to it.”

“But it’s at the end of July.”

“So?”

“You… shouldn’t you…” He didn’t finish, but Victor could make a polite guess at the rest of that question: _shouldn’t you be in Russia by then_? Yes, the answer was yes. Other possible, more accurate, answers would include _Yes, and you should come with me, we’ll have as many pianos and dogs as you want_ and _The only thing I should be doing is kissing you numb_.

All he did, however, was to raise a brow, so Yuuri tried to ask his question again: “I mean, I saw the GP assignments came out today. I thought you’d be… preparing to go back home.”

There. One of them had said it at last. _Go back home_.

He gasped and brought a hand to his chest. “Are you that desperate to get rid of me, Yuuri?! I thought I was special!”

“Specially dramatic,” Yuuri muttered, amused. “I just meant…”

“I know,” he reassured him. “I’ll buy my plane ticket right now for after the concert. Only then,” he added in an offended tone, “will you be free of my disgusting presence, Katsuki Yuuri.”

Yuuri rolled his eyes and Victor did his best to look insulted. He was probably failing spectacularly at it, as no one who was insulted would smile that broadly. Well, he’d tried.

A whole other month in Hasetsu. Wouldn’t that be a pleasant piece of news to Yakov.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS TOOK SO LONG, I'M SO SORRY. But allow me to explain why: I was writing and writing and writing, until I realized this chapter had become quite the monster, at around 13k. And while I like long-ish chapters, I thought this would be too much, so I split the whole thing in two.  
> The bad news is that what everyone is waiting for had to be pushed to the next chapter! :(  
> The good news is that, because I wrote so much, the next chapter is mostly done, and will be updated really soon, unlike the previous ones! :)  
> And if you notice, the number of chapters has been altered up there, from 13 to 14 (and to be completely honest, I have the feeling it'll become 15 pretty soon, just so you guys know. I'm so sorry!)
> 
> On an unrelated note: I have no idea how far in advance a musician should confirm their presence at an important concert, so please bear with me. XD If I had to bet, I’d say it’s definitely more than a month, but you know. Plot. I wanted a whole bunch of stuff to happen between them before Yuuri had the courage to accept the invitation.
> 
> Thank you guys for reading, patiently waiting and commenting, you're the best! *_*  
> Thanks to my beta, as usual, who still made the time to beta-read this even though she's moving. I love you like Victor loves Yuuri (ok, not EXACTLY like Victor loves Yuuri, but you know. XD Just as much!)


	9. And you can tell everybody that this is your song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought it was gonnna be just around 7 or 8k - it became a small monster of 12k?

Yuuri stared at himself in the mirror of his hotel room, a towel around his waist and hair still damp from the shower.

Where had that entire month gone?!

When he’d accepted the invitation to play at the concert he’d had a little more than a month to practice; now though. _Now_. Look at the dress rehearsal he’d had a week before. Even _A Night of Winters_ had been a disaster, and he’d been playing it for almost two years – at every festival, every concert, incessantly. Playing it was almost a knee jerk reaction at this point, it came to him as easy as breathing. But during the very last rehearsal it’d been like he’d never even heard his own waltz before.

And why on _Earth_ had he chosen Liszt if he was simply going to butcher it?!

He put on his clothes slowly. Underwear, pants, shirt, buttons, waistcoat. Breathing in, breathing out.

His own new piece was not even worth thinking about; he could’ve picked any of his old songs, _why had he chosen the new one_?! What had possessed him?!

Well, he knew _why_ , he just… hadn’t counted on Victor wanting to attend the concert – hadn’t counted on him still being in Japan at this time of the year in the first place.

And that he was still here… the fact Victor had stayed just for the concert, when he should’ve long gone back to Russia… was he reading too much into it?

 

_“Yuuri. That’s INSANE,” Phichit had turned his Serious Voice on._

_Yuuri buried his face in his hands. “I knooow, I know, I’m sorry, it’s stupid, of course he doesn’t –”_

_“No, Yuuri, that’s not what I mean,” Phichit interrupted him patiently. “It’s insane he’s gonna stay there till the end of July, with the Grand Prix right around the corner, but… Yuuri. He’s staying there_ for you _.”_

_There was a long moment of silence while Yuuri stared at Phichit’s ever beaming face on his screen. Finally, not sure he actually believed what he was about to say, he whispered:_

_“He’s… just staying for the concert.”_

_Phichit laughed. “Right! He’s staying out of love for classical music! Because there is no classical music to be had_ in Russia _.”_

_Yuuri couldn’t help a small snort._

_“Yuuri, listen to me. If Victor Nikiforov, the King of Russia, wants to attend a classical music concert, he can do it at any time back home. It’s not like Europe has a shortage of concerts or like he doesn’t have money to pay for whatever! But there’s one thing that he can only get in Hasetsu: Katsuki Yuuri.”_

_“Phichit, be serious.”_

_“You’re the one who doesn’t want to put two and two together! Are you seriously telling me that there’s nothing going on between you two?”_

_“No, it’s not like that! We just… spend a lot of time together. I mean – no.”_

_Phichit narrowed his eyes._

_“Yuuuuuri. What are you hiding?”_

_Yuuri sighed._

 

He struggled with the tie for a while ( _god_ he hated ties). He should’ve known telling Phichit about their almost-kiss would be a bad idea, but hiding things from Phichit Chulanont was like going ice skating in the sand: you could try if you really wanted to, but didn’t you already know you were going to fail? After hearing about what had almost happened, Phichit had started planning their wedding ( _“It has to be in the off-season, of course! Oh! A spring wedding! Under the sakura trees!”_ ), and even jotted down some ideas for his toast as the best man.

He loved Phichit to death, but he was ridiculous.

…was he wrong, though?

He smiled a little, his heart now _accelerando_ for reasons only half connected to the concert.

 

* * *

 

 

Victor looked at himself in the mirror, nervously adjusting his bangs and examining his new suit: yes, it was fine. He hadn’t brought any suits to Japan (“what for” was what he’d thought back then. “How could you not?!” was what he was thinking now), so he’d gone shopping a few weeks back, with Yuuri tagging along looking for a tuxedo (because Victor wasn’t the only one who’d thought “what for” when packing for Hasetsu). The tie wasn’t anything remarkable but it would have to do. Gloves, coat, heart racing as if he’d just skated an entire routine, and he was ready to go.

He locked his hotel room door and knocked on the one right next to it.

“Mr. Katsuki, your personal escort for the night is here!”

A hotel employee walking by gave him a funny look and Victor cursed himself. Maybe don’t say the words “Katsuki” and “escort” so loud in the hallway next time?

The door swung open to reveal Smiley Yuuri: “And right on time, too!”

Oh no.

That was not Smiley Yuuri.

Well it was, but it was also Tuxedo Yuuri.

With his hair pushed back, his perfect smile and his glasses framing his gorgeous chestnut eyes. All of that wrapped up in a very flattering tuxedo, like a present for Victor (was it his birthday??).

It was Let’s-Give-Victor-A-Heart-Attack Yuuri.

Was that on purpose? Did Yuuri _know_ the effect he had on Victor? He had to, it wasn’t like Victor was trying to be discreet or anything, but most days Yuuri seemed to have no clue – but _no one_ could look this bewitching and smile like that and not know what they were doing.

(Except for Yuuri.)

Yuuri went back into the room, leaving the door open while he talked.

“You are really punctual, mister…?” he asked, grabbing his own coat and throwing him that smile over the shoulder that should really, really be illegal.

Victor let go of the door frame he hadn’t realized he was gripping a bit too hard and leaned against it, hoping the move would make him look calm and collected (he just needed something to lean on, his knees were simply not to be trusted).

“Call me Victor.” _Call me yours._

“Victor, huh? Foreign.” He gave him a once-over in a mock evaluation. “And punctual. I might be booking you again in the future, Victor. If your services are as good as advertised, that is.”

Bantering Yuuri, and Victor swallowed a whimper. He cleared his throat to try and get his voice as close to normal as possible and smiled.

“Satisfaction guaranteed or your money back, Mr. Katsuki,” he answered with a wink. And by ‘satisfaction’ he meant ‘I could kiss you for so long you’d be completely incapable of witty banter for days’. Although that particular subtext might be too subtle for Yuuri’s ears.

A soft chuckle. “Just Yuuri is fine, really.”

“Well then, Just Yuuri, shall we?” He joked, offering him his hand.

That earned him a superb eye roll from Yuuri as he took his hand.

“See, this is the kind of dad joke that will make me not want to book you again.”

Victor huffed a small laugh, his heart too frantic for him to have anything charming and clever to say in return; he looked at their hands so naturally intertwined, so comfortable in each other, as if they’d never _not_ been laced together, and all rational thought flew out the window, leaving him with nothing but instinct – he lifted Yuuri’s hand to his lips and delicately pressed a kiss to his knuckles, finally, _finally_ , like he’d been wanting to do for months, for his whole life probably. And he would be perfectly happy to spend the rest of the night doing just that. He let his lips linger on Yuuri’s ring finger for one moment too long before murmuring into it “And we can’t have that, can we?”.

And he could spend eternity drinking the sound of Yuuri’s breath hitching like it just had and he knew, as certain as he knew his quads, that when he looked up Yuuri would be blushing.

What he was _not_ prepared for when he looked up was the sight of Yuuri blushing and smiling at him at the same time. But then, nothing in his life had prepared him for Yuuri.

“We can’t have that,” Yuuri agreed. “Let’s?”

“Let’s.”

And if Yuuri was having trouble holding his coat and closing the door only with his right hand, since Victor silently refused to let go of his left, well, Yuuri only had himself to blame. It was entirely his own fault that Victor couldn’t tear himself apart from him.

The car the KAA had sent was already waiting for them downstairs. The whole ride was spent in what had been comfortable silence for Victor, until the hand he was still holding started tensing. He risked a glance: Yuuri was nervously chewing his bottom lip, and his free hand was tapping madly on his own knee. Charming, Bantering Yuuri had vanished somewhere between the hotel and the car ride, disappearing in between the cracks of silence. From everything Victor had found out online, and the little Yuuri himself had hinted at, this was his first live performance in months – the first after the disastrous recital in New York. That was probably the nerves kicking in and Victor could sympathize; he always got a little anxious before skating his programs too. He tried to quietly help by rubbing light, soothing circles on Yuuri’s hand with his thumb, but it didn’t seem to do the trick.

He was still thinking of what he could do to make it better when the car drove by an enormous building, one side of which was covered in vegetation: each floor was a terraced garden, making it look like a waterfall of flora.

“Yuuri, what’s that?!”

“Oh, that’s the ACROS Fukuoka building. The symphony hall is inside.”

“You’re going to play _here_? This is gorgeous! Why is the name of the event not ‘Katsuki Yuuri Playing in the Hanging Gardens of Babylon’?!”

Yuuri let out a small laugh. “Victor, I’m not going to play in one of the gardens!”

“Still,” he murmured. St. Petersburg had nothing like that. And to his surprise, the other side of the building was the complete opposite: sleek, modern, all glass and state of the art. As he got out of the car, Victor gave mental kudos to the architect responsible for it.

Yuuri got out right after him, and Victor offered him his arm and his best smile.

“Mr. Katsuki.”

As Yuuri blinked and adorably ducked his head with a shy smile, he took his arm and another piece of Victor’s sanity with it. Because now, _now_ , he was walking into the Hanging Gardens of Fukuoka with the most beautiful man in the world on his arm and he _had_ to find out what exactly he’d done to deserve that, because whatever it was he needed to do it a lot more often.

The inside of the building was as sleek and white as the outside, all open spaces and glass panels – with posters of tonight’s performers, including Yuuri, all over. He was about to tease him about it when he noticed Yuuri fidgeting with his collar, was he trying to loosen it? The grip he had on Victor’s arm had gotten firmer too, like he actually needed the support to walk.

His “are you okay?” died on his lips, though, when an older woman with very short hair and severe glasses came towards them, greeting Yuuri with what she probably thought was a smile. They talked in Japanese, and from the brisk efficiency in her manner she must be in charge of something regarding the event, so Victor didn’t say a word. Yuuri seemed composed (not the most, certainly, but passable enough), except that his grip on Victor’s arm was now positively _painful_ (where, _where_ did all that strength come from?!).

Yuuri let go of his arm and turned to him, looking paler than usual. “So, um, I’m going now. Ah… see you later?”

It wouldn’t be obvious to just anyone, but Victor had just realized Yuuri was a _wreck_. He’d seen him nervous before, but this was something else, this was too close to the Recital Yuuri he’d seen in that video all those months ago.

He was fully aware he should just say “See you! You’re going to do great!” and turn around, but he didn’t move – there was not a single part of him that felt like leaving was a good idea, not with him looking like that. Instead, Victor took a step closer – half a step – and lifted his arms slightly without even thinking, as if he were going for a hug. As if he could protect him.

Yuuri took half a step back.

Victor let his arms drop, Victor Nikiforov Smile™ on.

“See you! You’re going to do great!”

Yuuri nodded, unsure, and turned around to follow the woman, his feet dragging a little and squeaking on the spotlessly white floor.

But before he had even taken three steps:

“Yuuri!”

He turned to Victor, eyes wide.

“If… call me. Or text me. If you need anything. I’ll be right there.”

All he could do now was hope that he hadn’t completely imagined Yuuri’s shoulders relax a little at that.

 

~

 

The hall was much bigger than Victor had anticipated. Rows upon rows distributed in three different levels, it must fit around 2,000 people, and they seemed to be arriving all at once. With the hall quickly filling up, Victor spent some time murmuring a thousand sumimasens while trying to get to his seat; he found it was at the front of the middle row, which would allow him to see Yuuri up close when it was his turn to perform.

But as soon as he sat down he stood up again.

Flowers.

He was so _stupid_. How could he have forgotten something so obvious?! It was tradition, right? To present flowers to the performer? He’d seen it happen more times than he could count – Lilia had been invariably presented with gorgeous bouquets from her fans back when she still danced, and he’d seen it happen at many concerts too.

He left his row in a hurry while looking at his watch: 30 minutes left till it started, great, but where could he buy flowers?!

He typed a couple of sentences in a translator on his phone and approached a young man dressed as an usher.

 

~

 

Victor went back to his seat with all the flowers he wanted and 5 minutes to spare.

He balanced the bouquet (okay, _maybe_ he should’ve bought a smaller one) carefully on his lap and finally took a look at the program – which, fortunately, had an English version. It had information on the symphony hall, director, Kyushu Symphony Orchestra, conductor, performers…

Under the name of each guest performer they listed which pieces they’d be playing and a little tidbit on each piece, provided by the performer.

 

**The Kyushu Symphony Orchestra**

Prokofiev / Suite No.2 from “Romeo and Juliet”, Op.64ter – I. Montague and Capulets

Akutagawa / Trinita Sinfonica

 

**Omiki Yuuto**

****Mendelssohn / Violin Concerto in E minor, Op. 64 - III. Allegro molto vivace

Tchaikovsky / Sérénade mélancolique in B-flat minor, Op.26

Omiki / In the Horizon Garden

 

**Fujiwara Hikaru**

****Mozart / Serenade No. 13 for Strings in G major, K. 525 - 1st Movement: Allegro

Fujiwara / Nostalgie

Takemitsu / Distance de fée (Minami Kenjirou on the piano)

 

**Minami Kenjirou**

****Takemitsu / Distance de fée (Fujiwara Hikaru on the violin)

Wagner / Lohengrin, Act 3 - In Fernem Land (piano arrangement by Katsuki Yuuri)

Minami/ The Wind Comes For All, from “The Princess of Dusk”

 

“Piano arrangement by Katsuki Yuuri”? Victor hadn’t bothered to read the brief descriptions of the pieces, but this one he had to.

 

Wagner / Lohengrin, Act 3 - In Fernem Land (piano arrangement by Katsuki Yuuri)

_“Katsuki’s original arrangement of the Lohengrin for piano has personal meaning for me. I saw him play it for the first time at the Kyushu Classical Music Competition years ago, and it was one of the most riveting performances I’ve ever seen. I’ve been looking up to him and trying to catch up to him since then, and this is my small tribute.”_

 

Aww, Yuuri had a _fan_! Well, of course he did, Yuuri was amazing, Victor was surprised the whole event wasn’t a tribute to Yuuri, really. But still, this was so sweet. (Although now he would very much like to take a look at this man who seemed to like Yuuri so much.)

 

**Katsuki Yuuri**

Liszt / Liebestraum Nocturn No.3

Katsuki / A Night of Winters, from “The Flying Palace”

Katsuki / On My Love

 

 _On My Love_? He didn’t know that piece. Surely he knew all of Yuuri’s pieces by now? He had them all, even Yuuri had been impressed by his Katsuki Yuuri playlist. Was this piece so old that no page or article about Yuuri had bothered with it? Or was it new?

The lights in the hall were dimmed and the curtains opened under thunderous applause to reveal the orchestra behind it. Victor put away the program and sat up straight.

 

~

 

He applauded Fujiwara’s rendition of Mozart’s _Serenade_ and got the program out of his pocket: two more pieces and another performer before Yuuri. How was he doing? Had he been able to relax? He hadn’t called or texted, so that was good. Right?

…But would he have? If he’d needed to?

Victor got his phone out of his pocket and typed a message.

 

 **20:07 [ **Me** ] **Hi Yuuri! Is everything okay?

 

The message was almost immediately read, and Victor watched as Yuuri typed a reply. Then backspaced. Then nothing for a few seconds. He was typing again. Backspaced. Typing. Typing. Typing. Backspaced. The entire hall was enveloped in the music coming from the violin being expertly played on stage, but for Victor there was nothing other than the tiny three bubbles on his screen, the only sign that Yuuri was trying to say something.

 

 **20:08 [Katsuki Yuuri ♥]** yes

 **20:08 [ **Me** ] **Sure?

 

More typing. More infuriating backspacing, and he had no doubt that the only thing coming his way was another lying “yes”.

 

 **20:09 [ **Me** ] **Where are you? I’ll go over there

 **20:09 [Katsuki Yuuri ♥]** you don’t have to

 

Yuuri might have his “Please do not disturb” sign up again, but all that typing-backspacing back and forth made Victor feel that perhaps he should knock anyway.

 

 **20:09 [ **Me** ]** I’ll meet you where you are. Give me directions

 **20:09 [Katsuki Yuuri ♥]** no it’s ok

 **20:10 [ **Me** ] **If you don’t give me directions I’ll have to ask the usher, my Japanese is horrible and I’ll get lost

 

Typing.

_Please don’t say no._

 

 **20:10 [Katsuki Yuuri ♥]** there’s a door on the left of the hall

 **20:10 [Katsuki Yuuri ♥]** give your name to the person at the door i put your name on the list

 **20:10 [ **Me** ] **On my way!

 

He left coat and flowers on his seat and stood up discreetly – which wasn’t much, he was a tall person on the very first row. He couldn’t care any less right now, he would sit on the conductor’s lap if Yuuri asked him to, but he did walk by as fast as possible so as not to disturb other people too much.

Not knowing what to tell the employee at the door, he simply gave Yuuri’s name and then his own. The man checked it on the list and opened the door for him; Victor followed through a bustling hallway with its lights also dimmed somewhat, and that eventually led to an emptier, narrower corridor flooded with light, with a short flight of stairs in the end. At the top, a door slightly ajar.

He went upstairs taking the steps two by two and knocked lightly on the door.

“Yuuri…?”

“Victor?” A familiar voice answered from the inside. Relieved, Victor went in.

The room was a large space with cream colored walls and a light green floor. There were some magazines on a coffee table, a few black and white posters of Japanese people (famous people, Victor assumed) and pictures of orchestras on the walls. Around the coffee table, a pair of beige sofas and a pink checkered armchair that really didn’t go with anything else in the room.

On the armchair, Recital Yuuri.

 

* * *

 

 

It had been fine with the other three in the room. Then Omiki-kun had left, and then Fujiwara-kun, and Yuuri had been left alone with Minami-kun.

Which was never comfortable.

He liked Minami as a person and admired his work; he had real talent, and the more he polished his skills the more his talent would flourish, and Yuuri wanted to see that.

But he was so _enthusiastic_. It was great to be that passionate about music, but his enthusiasm about Yuuri was something else. First of all, it was entirely unjustified and secondly, Yuuri had no idea how to react.

What do you say to someone who just showers you with undeserved praise? You thanked them, sure, but that never stopped Minami, it just seemed to encourage him. And whenever Yuuri dared to mumble that Minami was exaggerating, it fueled the young man’s fire and he went into Rant Mode. Mari had once suggested “why don’t you just agree with him, then?”, but that would obviously never happen, how could he agree with Minami’s endless hyperboles about Yuuri’s talents?!

He liked Minami, yes, but he liked him better when there were other people around to act as buffers to his intensity. Which was why he’d been grateful to have Omiki and Fujiwara around; without them in the room, the last 20 minutes had been draining at the very least.

When Minami had finally left to prepare for his and Fujiwara’s joint performance (and with Yuuri’s promise he’d watch him play the _Lohengrin_ ), Yuuri had thought it would be his opportunity to relax before he went on stage himself.

[ _You were wrong_ ]

He’d been wrong, because relaxing demanded being able to sit still and breathe – and as far as he could remember, relaxing didn’t involve clammy hands, and breathing didn't involve feeling like there was something stuck in his throat, choking, tightening, blocking his airways.

But he could do it, he could do it if he would only _focus_. Focus on breathing, focus on the pieces he was about to play, focus on – applause

So much applause.

So many people.

Why was his collar so tight?

Fujiwara must have finished the _Serenade_ , one more piece and then it’d be Minami and after him it would be Yuuri’s turn. [ _Your turn to botch_ Liebestraum No.3 _and_ A Night of Winters _and by the time you actually get to play_ On My Love _it’ll all be meaningless_ ] He only managed a couple of shallow breaths, his fingers fumbling clumsily with his tie and collar they felt like a leash around his neck and fuck there were just so many people out there [ _and they’ll all see it just like in New York last year they’ll all see what a fraud I am they’ll be watching me screw it all up which is what everyone expects me to do anyway and Victor will see it he’ll realize I wasn’t worth staying here for_ ] why couldn’t he breathe properly?

 _Deep breaths, deep breaths, deep breaths, deep –_ all the muscles he needed for that were too busy clenching in painful spasms

He couldn’t breathe

He couldn’t breathe

He couldn’t focus

His vision swam in and out as he stared at his feet, he was trying to look at reality from underwater and he was drowning – and like an anchor disturbing the surface of the water, his cell phone vibrated loudly on the coffee table right in front of him. He tried to blink away the blur in his vision and look at the message on the screen

 

**Victor**

Hi Yuuri! Is everything okay?

 

How did he know? He unlocked the phone and started typing a reply.

**no it’s not**

He stopped

Backspace

Victor would be worried

[ _As if you even deserve his concern._ ]

He held on to the phone, knuckles white, the thought of Victor on the other side of that message thinking about him the only thing keeping him grounded

**wish you were here**

Backspace

Tears prickled in the corner of his eyes and that, _that_ was the last thing he could do; if he started crying now he wouldn’t stop

**i’m gonna screw up again just like in ny**

Backspace

 

 **20:08 [ **Me** ] **yes

 **20:08 [Victor]** Sure?

 

**no I wanna go home**

How could he explain that yes he wanted people to listen to his music, yes he wanted people to see him play at concerts and recitals but no he didn’t want people to see him? What would he think if he saw Yuuri being this pathetic? He had stayed a whole other month in Japan for this?

Backspace

 

 **20:09 [Victor]** Where are you? I’ll go over there

 **20:09 [ **Me** ] **you don’t have to

 **20:09 [Victor]** I’ll meet you where you are. Give me directions

 **20:09 [ **Me** ] **no it’s ok

 **20:10 [Victor]** If you don’t give me directions I’ll have to ask the usher, my Japanese is horrible and I’ll get lost

 

Why was he doing that to Victor? This was so unfair to him, he’d already messed up Victor’s life enough as it was, why was Yuuri always such a mess?

_I’ll meet you where you are_

 

 **20:10 [ **Me** ] **there’s a door on the left of the hall.

 **20:10 [ **Me** ] **give your name to the person at the door i put your name on the list

 **20:10 [Victor]** On my way!

 

Not even 3 minutes had passed before he heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs.

“Yuuri…?”

 

* * *

 

No.

He’d only seen Recital Yuuri on a video, filmed from afar. This was worse, this Yuuri was too close and Victor could see every little distressing detail – the hands that gripped his cell phone like it was the only thing keeping him together, the bow tie half-undone, the hair slightly disheveled as if Yuuri had run his hands through it too much, the eyes too large. The stress bleeding out of his every pore, as if Anxiety had created Yuuri in Its own image.

This was a far cry from each and every Yuuri that kept winning his heart over and over again every day, a Yuuri of shy smiles and easy blushes, who exuded confidence when he’d played for Victor. But it was still Yuuri, his Yuuri.

He crossed the room in three strides, dimly registering the glasses forgotten on the table, and knelt in front of him. “Are you okay?” would be the stupidest question he could ask, but he also didn’t know what else to say; delicately and without a word, he extricated the phone from Yuuri’s hands and laid it on the table, and then carefully led him from the armchair to the couch, sitting next to him. He didn’t offer any resistance, his hands lifeless in Victor’s, and he’d never looked so small.

The minute they sat down, though, Yuuri looked up at him with a horrified look in his eyes before looking down again.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Sorry? For what?”

“I…” Yuuri took his hands out of his and started rubbing his own thighs up and down, shaking his head, “you came here and I… I’m… I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I…” He buried the heels of his hands into his eyes, curling in on himself a little, and Victor's heart stopped abruptly, like it’d just crashed straight into whatever was eating at Yuuri and gone into pieces.

He rubbed Yuuri’s shoulder tentatively. “Yuuri, that’s okay, you don’t have to apologize.”

“No, you… you shouldn’t be here.” Yuuri replied, still covering his eyes.

 _I should be wherever you are_. That was the only answer he’d known for the past few months, but he didn’t know if he had any right to say that.

…Unless it helped?

The sound of hundreds – thousands? – of people applauding snuck into the room, echoing throughout the hall; Yuuri’s whole body shook with a spasm, and he turned his eyes to the door almost as if he could see the audience and it terrified him. His eyes grew impossibly larger, with something akin to desperation that Victor wanted to wipe away – but how? How he could he help, what could he do?

“Yuuri, don’t… don’t listen to that. Don’t pay attention. Just try to…” He stopped. Try to what? Relax? If Yuuri were capable of relaxing surely he would’ve done it by now. But what else could he say?

Yuuri shook his head one more time and stared at his knees. “I should… I should get ready. It’s almost time. I’m sorry.”

_No. No. Let me help._

Why was he feeling like that? It was normal to feel nervous before a performance, but the more you did it the more you got used to it. If Yuuri had been a newcomer Victor would’ve understood, but he’d been playing in public for quite some time now. Did he get this nervous every time? Or was it still because of what had happened in New York last year? Was he feeling unprepared? Maybe if he’d had more time to practice he would’ve been better prepared for the concert – but he’d spent the entire summer with Victor. Making music for him, keeping him company. Victor had been in his way for months.

Yuuri stood up slowly and headed for the door, and Victor stood up as well.

“Yuuri, I’m sorry.”

The composer stopped with his hand on the doorknob and turned with a confused look.

“You’re… sorry?”

Victor rubbed the nape of his neck sheepishly. “I… I stayed too long with you. I shouldn’t have. I should’ve gone back to Russia. I’m sorry.”

One heartbeat.

Yuuri stared at him in silence, his initial confusion now dissolved into shock.

Two heartbeats.

Was he going to agree with Victor?

Three heartbeats.

The tears pooled in Yuuri’s eyes and streaked down his face.

And Victor’s heart shattered.

“Why… why would you say this right now? What do you mean?” Yuuri blubbered, looking more lost than ever.

Victor was paralyzed for a couple of seconds. He’d made it worse. He’d made it worse, how could he fix this?? He shook his head to try and find his voice again, and took one step forward. “I mean… I wasted your time! If I hadn’t been here, you would’ve… had more time to practice for the concert. Isn’t this why you’re nervous?!”

“What, so you, you think _this_ ” he gestured angrily at himself, “is your fault?”

“I... yes? I’m taking responsibility for it, the fault –”

“Is not yours to shoulder!” Yuuri half-yelled at him, but his voice it came out more tearful than angry. “I’m _used_ to being blamed for my own failures! I don’t need you to protect me from them, and I don’t need you to tell me you should’ve gone back to Russia when that’s all I can think about!”

“All you can think about?” he echoed stupidly.

“I spent the entire summer thinking that I was keeping you from training and that it’s my fault Yakov yells at you because you’re not in Russia and that it’s my fault that you’re not practicing enough and that – ” the rest disappeared in a sob and in the tears freefalling on the green marble floor as he stared at it, his hands curled so hard into fists his knuckles were white.

Victor got closer, a little more relieved. If that was the problem, then it should be a non-issue, he could fix that! “Yuuri, of course not! I stayed because I wanted to!”

“I know! ” Yuuri yelled.

Victor stopped in his tracks. He waited for Yuuri to elaborate – if he knew, then…? – but nothing else came, just the sound of broken sobs and loud sniffling, and the feeling of his own chest tightening.

He’d never been good with people crying in front of him, but this was a whole new level of uselessness. He’d just made him cry when he’d willingly trade all his gold medals for one of Yuuri’s smiles.

What could he say, what could he do?!

He just wanted those tears to stop.

“Yuuri…” Victor stepped closer and put his hands on Yuuri’s shoulders. When he didn’t shy away from the touch it encouraged Victor to lift Yuuri’s chin with one hand, which was immediately wet with tears. Yuuri still didn’t look at him, but offered no resistance either – that is, until Victor’s face was close to his. Then he snapped into attention and swatted Victor’s hand away.

“What are you doing?”

Victor opened his mouth, then closed it again. That sinking feeling in his stomach was an unmistakable sign he’d fucked it up. Again.

“Um…” He started but didn’t know how to continue with Yuuri staring at him like that, with that mix of bafflement and exasperation. Then, “I’m sorry.”

“Were you trying to kiss me?!” Yuuri demanded, his eyes dark with irritation.

Oh god, Yuuri was so mad. He was mad and anxious and crying and that was the worst combination he could’ve ever imagined.

He licked his lips nervously. Which one of them was supposed to be needing help? “I just thought…I want to help, but I don’t know what to say! What can I –”

“I don’t need a kiss right now! I don't need you to say anything! Just... just stand by me!”

The words echoed through the half-open door, down the stairs and into the small hallway, pinning Victor in place.

One heartbeat.

Yuuri wiped away his own tears, his brow still furrowed.

Two heartbeats.

Yuuri looked a mess and Victor felt like one.

Three heartbeats.

_“Stand by me.”_

He took a deep breath. “I can do that,” he murmured. “Yuuri… you won’t find anyone in this building who believes in you more than I do.”

Yuuri sniffed. “I know,” he said, muted. “I’m sorry. Listen, I… I have to go. I promised Minami I’d watch him, so…”

“Okay.” Victor breathed again, a little shakily. “Okay. Of course. But…” He gestured vaguely towards Yuuri. “You hair and… your tie? They’re kind of…”

“Oh. Yeah, I… I might’ve…” He didn’t finish that sentence, but Victor guessed that _I clawed at them like a caged animal_  wasn’t exactly something easy to admit.

Silence. Yuuri made no move to go like he said he had to, and Victor didn’t dare step any closer without permission.

He pointed at the general direction of the tie. “Can I?”

Yuuri nodded and Victor closed the distance between them again, fixing Yuuri’s tie with dexterous fingers and being careful not to touch him in any other way.

“There.”

“Thanks.” Victor only noticed Yuuri had held his breath when he exhaled again. Then Yuuri looked up at him, his eyes still sparkling from the tears. “Fix my hair for me?”

No heartbeats.

All the heartbeats.

“Sure.”

 

~

 

The applause coming from the hall as they left the green room told them Fujiwara had left the stage, and now it’d be Minami’s turn to play the _Lohengrin_. As they went downstairs, Victor suddenly felt one single finger at the top of his head and he halted abruptly.

He looked behind him, confused.

One step above him, Yuuri was gingerly touching Victor’s scalp; seeing his surprise, the composer patted his head. He still looked dog tired, but at least now his tie and hair were back in place, and he wore a tiny smile.

“Found a balding spot.”

Victor gasped. “You did not!”

Yuuri snickered.

“Yuuriiii!”

“Sorry. Can’t resist.”

“What, mocking me?”

Yuuri cocked his head. “Yeah, that too.”

Victor blushed and, not knowing how to answer, turned around and kept going. He hated the silence of that hallway, it made it too easy for the thumping of his heart to echo off every wall.

But that heart was Yuuri’s now, so he might as well hear it.

They turned around the corner and into the larger hallway that led into the hall; Yuuri stopped.

“So, um, this is your door. There’s another one back there,” he pointed towards the opposite direction, “it goes into the backstage. That’s my stop.”

“Okay. So… I’ll see you later?”

“Yeah. See you.”

He turned on his heels and went the other way and Victor watched, a little wistful. Why couldn’t he just sit next to Yuuri throughout the entire performance? Would people really mind?

But before Victor could tear his gaze away from him, Yuuri turned around swiftly and went back to him, taking something out of his pocket.

“Here,” he handed him his glasses, seriously. “You have to take care of my glasses. They’re _important_.”

Victor smiled, warmth spreading all over his chest. Yuuri. Never predictable, but somehow, always the same.

Yuuri seemed confused at the smile. “I mean it. This is the only pair I brought to Japan.”

Victor carefully put it in his own pocket. “Consider it done.”

“You’ll watch, right?”

Victor blinked at the sudden vehemence in those brown eyes – those eyes that, even rimmed with red from crying, were just. _so_ . _pretty_. Like all the rest of Yuuri.

“When don’t I?”

The familiar blush tinted Yuuri’s cheeks and ears and he ducked his head. He nodded, and without another word he turned around, this time disappearing through the door to the backstage.

Minami Kenjirou had already started playing the _Lohengrin_ when Victor finally made it back to his seat; the minute he settled down and looked at the young man he was shocked: Minami was a child! How old was he, 15?! (But then, Yuuri was 23 and looked 18, so clearly looks were nothing to go by.)

He listened eagerly as the boy played what had originally been Yuuri’s arrangement of “In Fernem Land”, wondering how different it would be if Yuuri himself were playing it, marveling at how he’d gotten an aria so powerful and so poignant and crafted it into something so soothing.

But that was Katsuki Yuuri for you. Always soothing sharp edges and pangs into softness.

(Hadn’t he done the exact same to _Stammi Vicino_?)

(Hadn’t he done the exact same to Victor?)

He thought back to Minami’s words on the program:

_“I’ve been looking up to him and trying to catch up to him since then”_

Trying to catch up to Yuuri, huh? _You and me both, kid_.

And finally, the last piece before Yuuri, _The Wind Comes For All_. It was certainly beautiful, and Minami had a contagious quality to him. Too bad Victor was not in a place where he could focus on him now, with the scene in the green room and in the hallway playing in his mind on an endless loop.

He sighed and got the program out of his pocket again.

 

**Katsuki Yuuri**

Liszt / Liebestraum Nocturn No.3

Katsuki / A Night of Winters, from “The Flying Palace”

Katsuki / On My Love

 

Liszt / Liebestraum Nocturn No.3

_“For me, the Liebestraum lieder are the ultimate Romantic pieces for piano. Each piece of the set covers a quintessential facet of love: No.1 is about saintly love, and No.2 about erotic love. No.3 covers unconditional love, based on the poem ‘Love as long as you can!’. It’s poignant and soothing at the same time. It’s about love and life being intertwined, about loving as best as you can and baring your soul to your loved one.”_

 

Katsuki / A Night of Winters, from “The Flying Palace”

_“It’s a personal favorite among my own works, I’m pretty happy with it. It’s supposed to reflect the theme of soulmates and love transcending death, which is the overall theme of “The Flying Palace”. And it’s a beautiful idea. Not everyone believes in it, but I think I do.”_

 

Katsuki / On My Love

_“I’d never really thought of what ‘love’ was to me until very recently. This piece is about the abstract feelings of my relationship with music, and about the support that exists all around me even though I felt for a long time like I’d been fighting alone. It’s about finding someone I want to hold on to. I don’t really have a name for that emotion, but I have decided to call it ‘love’. Now I know what love is and I’m stronger for it.”_

 

Victor read the description of _On My Love_ three times, each word of it muting the outside world and the music being played right in front of him – the only music there was, there could be right now, was the overture contained in them.

_“The piece is about you, then.”_

_“…Yes.”_

_“And what else?”_

_“And about… fighting on your own.”_

This was the _Yuuri_ piece. He’d completed it.

_“It’s about finding someone I want to hold on to.”_

_“Just stand by me!”_

And changed the title to _On My Love_.

Applause.

Victor didn’t bother joining in, nor did he notice when Minami left the stage.

He shifted restlessly on his seat, the presence of all those people around him making him fidgety. He knew he was being irrational, but it felt as though the audience had no right to be here for this. Like they were intruding into something that should be only Victor’s.

He stared at the empty stage, waiting, feeling his heart race in his chest like it had places to go – places it had never known before and couldn’t wait to get to.

 

* * *

 

The reaction from the audience was great – but then, _A Night of Winters_ was always a hit. His _Liebestraum_ , too, had gone much better than expected. Once again he’d let his fears do the speaking and convince him he couldn’t do this. He should know better than to allow them to get the best of him, but that was a battle he would probably lose many more times in the future.

 _“What matters is what you do_ after _you don’t win, right?”_

[_On My Love_.](https://soundcloud.com/user-985807580/yuri-on-ice)

As he played the first notes he was unusually relaxed, much more than he’d ever been during a performance. He felt a lot better after crying, like he’d finally decompressed – as if it had unlocked something within him that had been silently screaming to get out. He’d cried after a performance a few too many times, but this had been the first time he’d cried _before_ one. Maybe he should do it more often – and Victor’s expression when he’d started to cry was priceless.

His fingers ran easily along the keys, acting out of sheer muscle memory as they told his tale. Their melody. There wouldn’t be much of a story to tell without Victor. Victor, who was everything Yuuri was not, who smiled easily and charmed everyone around him, but skated in C minor when he thought no one else was looking. Victor, who made stories happen and inspired others to fly, but who stumbled just like him sometimes. _“I’m sorry, I just… when we talked on skype you seemed so nervous that… I guess I… wanted to reassure you?”_ Who simply _said things_ when he didn’t know how to comfort.

The orchestra joined him, bringing that familiar violin with it, that violin that burst in opening windows Yuuri insisted on keeping shut.

Victor, who thought a kiss would cure anxiety. He probably didn’t have any experience in dealing with someone mentally weak like Yuuri, but there _was_ a thing called common sense! Stupid Victor.

_“What’s your theme?”_

_“Life and Love”_

_“Why this one?”_

_“Because I like to skate about things I either understand, so I can tell their stories, or… things I don’t understand, so I can maybe… try to unravel them.”_

Yuuri had spent months trying to figure out what Victor had meant by “love” on their very first conversation, and it’d never occurred to him that maybe Victor wasn’t sure what he’d meant either.

_“I don’t really have a name for that emotion, but I have decided to call it ‘love’._

And in trying to unravel it, they had become inextricably entangled in each other.

The sounds of the orchestra disappeared, and he was flying solo again.

It was always scary, always daunting, playing by yourself. Just him and the piano, naked for the world to see, baring his soul to others with nowhere to hide. It was like trying to soar without anything or anyone to catch you if you fell. But he could do it. And if he fell, he’d simply have to pick himself up. He’d done it before and he’d do it again. He’d do it as many times as necessary, because that was what everyone in his life deserved from him, and he’d do it until he’d finally caught up to the music that violin had been playing all his life.

And out of the corner of his eye, just as the violins and the percussion came back, he could make out a flash of silver hair in the audience, right under his nose, and he could feel those blue eyes locked on him.

Piano and violin soared the only way they knew how, together, drowning everything else around him that wasn’t that set of blue eyes. He didn’t need Victor to be watching, but he _wanted_ him to be. He’d spent half of his life watching Victor, now it was his turn.

_Stay close and don’t ever take your eyes off me, then._

_Watch me._

_Watch me rewrite myself in a major key._

_Watch me surpass your wildest imagination._

His fingers slowed down and the last note echoed in the hall, bringing the piece to an end – even though his melody had only just begun.

One brief second of silence (and he brushed a flyaway strand from his face); one brief second of silence and the audience erupted in deafening applause – the audience Yuuri had forgotten about in the last few minutes – and he looked up at the sea of people standing up for him.

All he saw was one pair of eyes trained on him.

 

* * *

 

Victor was running.

For the first time in his life, he was running.

Well, or at least he _would_ be, if there weren’t so many people around. The hall was packed with people leisurely making their way towards the exit and not caring one bit about Victor’s personal matters, refusing to part for him as if they were extras in a movie where he was the lead. Real life could be so disappointing sometimes. He had no choice but to arm himself with a hundred “sumimasens” and squeeze his way through as fast as possible – which, by all standards, was “not very fast”.

But he was moving.

Not aimlessly around an empty rink, as he so often did back home after everyone had left, or in a carefully choreographed routine designed only to awe judges and audiences. There was no choreography this time, no coach, no one keeping score, he had to make the steps as he went along and hope they were the right ones. And God have mercy, he’d fallen face first on the ice enough for today, it was time to land a jump before the music was over.

So he moved. And this time, he moved for himself.

He’d planned on waiting, of course. Waiting until the rush of the performance had died down somewhat so he could talk to Yuuri properly. Waiting until everyone that wanted to talk to Yuuri had done so, and then he’d be all Victor’s.

But being flexible with one’s plans was so important, wasn’t it? Which was why he moved through the sea of people even though the concert hadn’t been over for 5 minutes. There would be other people in the green room – musicians, organizers, family, friends – but he didn’t care.

(The man at the door either recognized him from before or was taken aback by the urgency on his face; either way, he just waved him through. _Finally_ , someone understood.)

Waiting was all he’d ever done.

Waited for someone, anyone, to need him.

Waited twenty years for his life to start, and while he skated, he’d missed the moment when life had begun to pass him by, the moment when he’d started tearing at the seams, with no one around to pick up his loose threads.

(And now he was moving through the large corridor crawling with employees and musicians, everything an indistinct blur of people carrying instruments, talking, laughing, giving instructions, going somewhere, everyone with a purpose – but now he also had one of his own.)

Twenty years and he’d been nothing but a spectator.

Years of being nothing but a shadow on the ice, a mime, years that had come down to nothing more than apathy hiding behind a handful of medals and waiting.

(The next corridor was still suffused with that bright light that hurt his eyes momentarily; when he was done blinking he recognized the two guest violinists – what were their names again? – and Minami Kenjirou leaving the green room.)

Waiting the whole summer at Yuuri’s door, waiting for him to remove the sign of “Please do not disturb”. But today, instead of waiting for Victor to knock, Yuuri had just swung the door wide open for him.

(Minami Kenjirou stood at the top of the stairs, chattering happily with someone inside, and the only thing Victor got from it was a few excited “Katsuki-san”.)

 _On My Love_.

(Between Victor and the stairs, an empty stretch of corridor.)

_“You can just keep on being Victor. That’s more than good enough.”_

The one answer he would’ve never seen coming.

The one thing no one had ever asked of him.

(So he ran.)

He’d learned a lifetime ago that they all wanted everything from Victor Nikiforov, the Living Legend, but no one wanted anything from Victor. So he’d given them what they wanted, worn whatever face they asked for, year after year, and eventually forgotten what his own face looked like.

_“Just stand by me!”_

For the first time in his life he was running towards something and wearing his own face, for whatever it was worth. Running because he finally wanted something again.

Running because Yuuri didn’t need him, he’d made it very clear tonight, but because he _wanted_ him.

Running along the white walls, white light and green tiles, past Minami, up the stairs and into the room.

_“Now I know what love is and I’m stronger for it.”_

“Victor!”

How could one smile single-handedly pick up all his loose threads and weave him into something new?

Yuuri moved from the window and rushed towards him, his brown eyes focusing only on him, his warm smile for Victor and Victor alone.

“I did great, right?!”

Victor went around the couch, mindlessly dropping the flowers on the coffee table and meeting Yuuri in the middle of the room, both of them all over each other’s personal spaces. Without giving it a second thought he reached up and cupped Yuuri’s cheeks, bringing their foreheads together, his heart jolting when Yuuri’s hands came to rest on his arms – those hands from which he never wanted to disentangle himself, that sent an undercurrent of electricity running through every last bit of him. He closed his eyes.

“You did,” he replied, a barely audible whisper a breath’s width from Yuuri’s lips. “You were incredible, _solnyshko_.”

Yuuri huffed a shaky laugh and gripped the fabric of Victor’s sleeves, pulling him imperceptibly closer as if he needed him to steady himself, and Victor opened his eyes again, pulling back just enough to be able to look at Yuuri again; from this up close, he noticed his lips looked a little chapped and his eyes still tired from before – and also how they sparkled, how the flush spread delicately on his cheeks.

He was beautiful.

So beautiful it made his breathing shallow and sent a pang through his chest that would be alarming, if it weren’t so recurrent by now. That ache had come to stay like nothing else ever had, like he hoped Yuuri would.

He breathed out quietly, as if one wrong move could break the fragile silence on which everything was suspended; but the way Yuuri’s lips parted and his eyes flitted to Victor’s mouth was enough to break the dam and wash away whatever hesitation he still had. He found himself leaning down, Yuuri meeting him halfway, and his mind was nothing but white noise as he melted into Yuuri’s lips.

It should’ve been an explosion of something long contained and reined in, like an earthquake shaking him to his very core. But it wasn’t – it was better.

It was Yuuri.

Just a gentle brush of lips at first, enough for Victor to revel in the warmth of him – the warmth he’d only ever guessed at from the way he smiled and the sound of his laughter – until Yuuri let go of the fabric, and suddenly Victor’s stomach was doing quad flips at Yuuri’s fingertips playing with the short hairs in the back of his neck. His mouth moved with a will of its own and Yuuri parted his lips to let him in; and just like that Victor was helpless. Helpless against Yuuri tilting his head and pulling him in, helpless against Yuuri kissing him back, against the way the only thing he could breathe right now was Yuuri’s breath, warm and sweet, and he tasted just like he smelled: intoxicating.

He slid one hand down to the small of Yuuri’s back, the other weaving itself through that hair that, really, _really_ was as soft as it looked; Yuuri hummed, pressing into the kiss just a little further and robbing Victor of any peace of mind. How his lips could be both soft and intense at the same time was a riddle he’d gladly spend a number of forevers trying to solve. Empirically.

It felt like spinning, except he had no control over it.

Yuuri came out of the spin first, exhaling softly, and Victor almost chased his lips again. Almost.

He opened his eyes only to see Yuuri slowly open his and bite his lower lip, and then – of all things – to shyly give a small nod, as if he approved. _God_ he was so adorable, how did he even exist? Victor swallowed and smiled weakly, his mind still a little fuzzy. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a while,” he whispered, and Yuuri’s eyes softened.

“Really?”

Victor hummed, running a distracted thumb along Yuuri’s jawline, staring at his lips still swollen from the kiss, _Victor’s_ kiss. Yuuri leaned slightly into the touch, a smile slowly spreading – and then he turned his head sharply at the door, as they finally registered the sound of conversation from outside. He nervously let go of Victor.

“We, uh, we should… we really shouldn’t… you know. Here.”

Letting go of Yuuri was so far down on his to-do list he was pretty sure even “shaving my head” came first, but he did it nonetheless.

“Oh! I got you something!” He remembered, holding Yuuri by his shoulder as if he wanted to pin him in place; he went over to the coffee table and got the flowers he’d hastily left there.

He presented Yuuri with the enormous bouquet of pink roses with one hand, while keeping the other behind his back. “These,” he declared in his most formal tone, “are for Katsuki Yuuri, composer and pianist extraordinaire, for the incredible performance he had tonight.”

Yuuri’s mouth dropped in an ‘o’ shape and he brought his hands to either side of his face, stunned, too endearing to bear. He looked from the flowers to Victor, from Victor to the flowers for a couple of seconds, before taking the bouquet hesitantly, eyes still wide in disbelief.

A suspicion came to Victor: was it possible that no one had ever given Yuuri flowers? How could that be? How were people not tripping over themselves to give him flowers, or anything else, really? Had Yuuri been surrounded exclusively by blind and deaf people until today? And Victor was positive that even if he were blind and deaf he’d still be completely, undeniably enamored with Katsuki Yuuri.

(Which led to the hand that was still behind his back.)

Yuuri was still eyeing the flowers in complete awe, touching them delicately as if afraid to break them. “Victor… thank you. They’re beautiful.” His voice was low, almost reverent, and he’d never looked this vulnerable, this touching before.

Victor took a deep, nervous breath. “And this,” he continued, giving him one single red rose with his other hand, “is for you.”

Yuuri blinked. “A-another? But…”

Victor stepped closer, once again in the only place he wanted to be: Yuuri’s personal space. “These are for the amazing musician I saw perform tonight, the composer who never fails to amaze me. But this one is for you. Yuuri. All of you.”

Yuuri in a tuxedo in a symphony hall and Yuuri in baggy sweatpants singing at the piano at home, shirtless and sleepy in the morning and watching the sunset with him on the beach, dancing by himself in a silent studio and pole dancing half-naked in front of a crowd, pulling Victor by his tie demanding a tango and blushing when Victor got too close. Yuuri of the maddening smile over the shoulder. Who asked things of Victor no one ever had or ever would.

His Yuuri. The one story he wanted to unravel the most.

And who was now staring at that single rose with glistening eyes.

He gently took it from Victor’s hand and, without a word, stood on tiptoe and kissed the corner of his mouth.

Victor held his breath, taken completely by surprise – another day, another surprise, courtesy of Katsuki Yuuri – and then smiled, his heart hanging by a thread.

Yuuri’s face suddenly scrunched up in confusion. “When… where did you even buy these flowers?! You didn’t have them when we arrived.”

“Oh, there’s a flower shop nearby.”

“Really? How did you find that out?!”

Victor shrugged, nonchalant. “I guess you don’t know Fukuoka as well as I do.”

A snort that would’ve been ungainly coming from anyone else, and then a laugh that immediately filled the room – that rare laugh that Yuuri usually kept bottled up and didn’t give away, that had Yuuri wrinkling his nose and echoed its way into Victor’s life.

The sound of footsteps coming fast upstairs put an end to that laugh and had Yuuri nearly jumping out of his skin and taking five steps away from him; Victor sighed discreetly, why did people not understand? He was having A Moment and would like to be left alone with Yuuri, thank you very much.

Minami Kenjirou stormed into the room, with an energy and an excitement that seemed very much his in all occasions, and even Victor took a step back.

“Katsuki-san!” He had a childish voice and his Japanese was too fast for Victor to keep up with, though he did understand “let’s eat” from among the torrent of foreign words. Yuuri smiled a little and replied in the same language before switching back to English.

“Minami-kun, this is my… um, this is Victor.” The skater waved, with his best Victor Nikiforov Smile™. Minami smiled brightly at him and bowed.

“Nice to meet you, Victor-san!” Victor bit back a laugh: Minami was the first person to actually call him that. Yuuri’s parents only called him Vicchan, while Yuuri, Mari, Minako and everyone else simply called him Victor (or “Victoru”, depending on how thick their accent was). But Victor-san was a first.

“Nice to meet you, Minami-san. Congratulations on tonight, your performance was incredible.”

It was obviously the right thing to say, and yet also the wrong one, as it made Minami liven up to what should’ve been impossible levels.

“Thank you!!! Fujiwara-san was great on the violin in _Distance de fée_ , right? And it’s Takemitsu, it’s always good” Victor didn’t know what a Takemitsu was, but Minami carried on. “And Katsuki-san’s _Lohengrin_ is fantastic!”

“It’s not mine, it’s Wagner’s,” Yuuri mumbled, and the young man turned to him, indignant.

“It’s _your_ arrangement!” He went back to Victor, fiercely. “Katsuki-san is amazing, right?!”

“He is. He really is,” Victor nodded, seriously, which earned him a death glare from Yuuri. Every ounce of his body seemed to be screaming “don’t encourage this”, and Victor was too shameless to even try to hide his amusement. Still, he complied with the silent request. There was no other topic of conversation he would’ve liked to pursue more than All The Ways In Which Katsuki Yuuri Was Amazing, but he’d stressed Yuuri enough as it was for the day. Maybe next time.

(And would you look at him, making plans for a next time.)

He realized he’d tuned out of the conversation for a second there, and that Minami had asked him something.

“Sorry, I…?”

Yuuri came to his rescue: “Minami-kun and the others are going out for dinner and invited us to join them. But, uh…” Yuuri hesitated, and Victor thought he understood. If he knew Yuuri at all, he knew he just wanted to go back to the hotel and get some rest after such an emotionally exhausting day - and if the energy Minami was oozing right now was a preview of the rest of the night, Yuuri would simply not survive it. Nevertheless, he was still giving Victor the option to say ‘yes’ for them, if he felt like going.

There was nothing Victor felt less like.

All he wanted was what the world had refused to allow him to do tonight: steal Yuuri away and keep him all to himself.

He slid his hand into Yuuri’s and turned an easy, practiced smile to Minami. “Thank you Minami-san, but unfortunately we already have plans. Maybe next time?”

Yuuri widened his eyes a little at their hands laced together, as aware as Victor that that hadn’t been necessary at all, just the polite lie would’ve been enough. But Victor hadn’t done it out of necessity and Yuuri didn’t protest, nodding along to the vague excuse given.

The look of disappointment on Minami’s face was hard to ignore, though.

“Sorry, Minami-kun. Next time, definitely!” Yuuri promised, and that seemed to breathe life into the young man again. Looking around a bit frantically, he grabbed one of the music magazines lying on the table and extended it to him with a bow.

“Katsuki-san, please!”

Why was he giving him a random magazine? Yuuri sighed quietly.

“Minami-kun, are you sure? How many do you have already?”

“Just three! But this is our first concert together!”

Three what?

Clearly embarrassed, Yuuri turned to him. “Victor do you, uh, do you have a pen?”

Realization dawned on Victor and he beamed, to Yuuri’s infinite chagrin. He gave him his pen without a word, just a wide grin, and Yuuri did his best to ignore it while giving him the flowers to hold.

Victor watched fascinated as Yuuri took the magazine, opened it on the first page and signed it.

He was about to give it back to Minami, whose eyes were already sparkling at the idea of having a _fourth_ Katsuki Yuuri autograph, when Victor interjected:

“This is your first concert together, Yuuri! Why don’t you write a few lines about that as well?”

Yuuri froze halfway, the magazine still extended towards Minami; whatever he was about to say in protest died at once on his lips when he glanced at Minami’s hopeful face.

“Um… I, uh… I, yeah. Sure,” he gave in with a resigned face. It wasn’t the _best_ reaction, but it was a start.

 _“Treat your fans with the care they deserve.”_ Yakov had always hammered this in him ever since Victor’s junior days, and even though he rarely did what his coach asked of him, this was something they’d always agreed on. Fans uplifted you, even when you had a bad day, even when you hadn’t given it your best – they believed in you when you didn’t, and their faith in you kept you standing at the end of the day. It was your job to uplift them back.

Meanwhile, Yuuri thought so little of his own accomplishments he couldn’t even bring himself to treat a fan the way he should; he would never be able to uplift himself if he couldn’t even uplift someone who already looked up to him. And Minami’s fervor definitely deserved more than a mere autograph, the way his face lit up when he read Yuuri’s words for him should be treasured.

And Yuuri’s shy smile at that was a good start.

 

* * *

 

Leaving had not been as straightforward as Yuuri would’ve liked: he’d still had to make small talk to Mashima-san and the rest of the KAA board of directors; small talk had always been the very opposite of Yuuri’s forte, but that was specially true whenever Mashima-san and her severe quasi-smiles were involved. She’d been the Director of the KAA Music Department for as long as Yuuri had been a professional musician, and their paths had crossed quite a few times during the years, but she’d never gotten less intimidating. Yuuri had the distinct impression that she disliked him – or at least, disliked his hesitant ways – but then, she didn’t seem to like anyone much. She’d barely nodded to Victor when Yuuri had introduced them, and someone who couldn’t be charmed by Victor Nikiforov’s smile was clearly beyond salvation.

Between the board of directors and some unexpected fans that had been waiting outside – waiting for _him_ , Katsuki Yuuri, of all the undeserving people – it had taken them a much longer time to leave than Yuuri had anticipated. He hadn’t felt this drained in months (since New York?), and the only thing that had kept him from collapsing of exhaustion had been Victor’s hand in his throughout all of that.

Victor had suggested they get room service instead of going somewhere for dinner, for which Yuuri was eternally grateful (going out to eat would involve going to a place with _people_ , the very last thing he wanted), so after a shower, they were now having a silent dinner in Yuuri’s bedroom at the hotel.

Silent because, in between stealing glances at Victor, Yuuri had no idea of what to say. What should they talk about now? About the concert, as if nothing had happened? About the kiss, about how everything was different now? Or maybe it wasn’t different for Victor, maybe it didn’t mean much to him? _“I’ve been wanting to do that for a while”_. And now that he _had_ done it, what? What happened from now on? Victor was leaving Japan in two days, he’d go back to his home rink and then he’d be traveling all over the world for the Grand Prix and Europeans and Worlds… while Yuuri stayed behind. Why kiss him, then?

[ _Because Victor Nikiforov has always been free with his charms, and you were here, available and clearly in love with him. Why not?_ ]

It would’ve been easier if Victor simply wasn’t interested in him that way – but to know that he was interested, just not that much, not for something lasting… that stung more than having nothing at all, and would be much harder to get over.

[ _Well, being nominated for awards and not getting them is something of a motif with you, right?_ ]

“So, Yuuri…”

Yuuri jumped in his seat and almost knocked down a glass of water, startling Victor.

“Sorry, I’m sorry! What?”

Victor chuckled. “Where were you, Yuuri?”

He was so handsome, this was _so_ unfair, why did even his chuckle have to be perfect? He shook his head. _Focus_. “Yeah, sorry, I… I was thinking. You were saying?”

“I was just going to say that you finished _Yuuri_ , right?”

“Oh. Yeah. Yeah, I… did.” And named it _On My Love_ because it had become his story before and after Victor had walked into his life, and that heat on his own face, giving away all his emotions, was the thing he hated the most about himself right now.

He glanced up and found the skater gazing at him with his favorite Victor Smile, the warm one that seemed to say a thousand things and turned Yuuri into a puddle.

“It’s beautiful,” he replied, his voice as soft and warm as his smile. “Well, it’s _you_ , so.”

Yuuri grabbed his knees to resist the impulse to bury his face in his hands and hide the blushing, and what wouldn’t he give to find some ear plugs for Victor so he wouldn’t hear his heartbeat. He only hoped it was genuine, and not Victor just _saying things_ again.

“Thanks,” Yuuri murmured.

“It’s my favorite Katsuki Yuuri composition, definitely.”

Yuuri glared at him. “Please.”

“I mean…” Victor ran a restless hand through his bangs, “true, I don’t know much about music, but I know what it makes me feel, and… yes, _On My Love_ is my new favorite.” Then he added, timidly: “What are you going to do with it?”

“What do you mean?”

“I noticed you’ve never released an album, so… why haven’t you, by the way?”

Yuuri gave a one-shoulder shrug. “Well, the movies always have the official soundtrack released, so… my music is there, really. And there’s the…” he stopped.

Victor tilted his head, all attention. “There’s the…?”

“The, um… _kasukiurigreatsns,_ ” he mumbled into his glass of water.

“Yuuri. In English.”

Yuuri took what was probably the longest sip of water in the history of drinking – maybe if he drank long enough Victor would forget? He finished the entire glass only to find Victor waiting with raised eyebrows and an amused smile. He knew exactly what Yuuri was doing and was definitely not falling for it. Yuuri sighed.

“ _Katsuki Yuuri’s Greatest Songs_.” Victor straightened up, interested, and Yuuri swallowed. “Um… it’s gonna come out in September? I think? It’s a… a collection. Of the, um, most famous songs. Like. _A Night of Winters_ , _Nighttime and Daybird_ , and… you know. Others.”

Victor leaned over a bit and smiled, though “sparkled” might be a more accurate description. And with his heart-shaped smile, which was so. unfair.

“Yuuri, this is amazing! I’m going to buy it!”

“Victor, you don’t have to!” Yuuri protested.

“I know, but I will!”

Yuuri sighed again and sat back, fidgeting with his chopsticks. Victor was impossible sometimes.

“But,” Victor continued, “what are you going to do with _On My Love_?”

Excellent question. Yuuri hadn’t composed anything for himself in years, ever since college. What did he want to do with it?

He shrugged again. “I don’t know, keep it? I mean, what can I do?”

“You could release it in an album.”

Yuuri had been approached by labels many times to compose an album of his own, and he’d always refused. What would he compose about? He’d never had a story to tell. He still didn’t.

He looked at Victor again.

Or maybe he did.

He could compose a hundred different songs and pieces and still not be able to properly tell that story smiling at him, with something in his eyes he couldn’t possibly convey in simple notes.

He smiled back a little. “Yeah, maybe.”

“You should, it’s incredible!” He gestured excitedly with his chopsticks (and how could he still hold them the wrong way even after months of living in Japan? How did he even manage to eat that way?) Yuuri felt his own smile widen.

“Don’t exaggerate.”

Victor rolled his eyes and huffed, sending his bangs flying up. “You’re the worst, did you know that? I’m not exaggerating. It was gorgeous before, but now it… it _feels_ different. More hopeful? I don’t know if I’m making sense.” He waved a hand, dismissing his own comments. “But it’s … full of life.”

Yuuri bit his bottom lip. “You think so?”

“Absolutely!” Victor waved the chopsticks vaguely around again to drive his point across, and Yuuri’s eyes followed the movement. Half of Yuuri noted amusedly that Victor really was incapable of standing still, even off the ice; the other half was currently busy watching how Victor’s hair and smile seemed to shine, even though the room was dimly lit. He went on enthusiastically: “And you added a violin, it’s _beautiful_!”

A beat. “I thought the violin suited you.”

Another beat while the meaning of that sank in.

Oh.

_Ohhh._

There it was. That sight was easily in Yuuri’s Top 3 Favorite Things Ever.

Victor Nikiforov Blushing.

It didn’t happen often, but oh when it did. You could _hear_ the playboy image shattering like the mirror it was – a mirror that, like all others, took reality and distorted it into something that looked real but was not quite there – and actually see him. See the Victor who didn’t know what to say or how to react right on the spot, as unlike the smooth Living Legend as possible, a Victor who did not exist on the ice, nor for cameras or fans. Only for Yuuri.

The red spread on his face and neck (making Yuuri wonder if it also spread down to his chest), his eyes opened a fraction wider, and it was hard not to lean over the table, grab him by the collar and kiss him senseless. Good thing Yuuri had put on his glasses again, because that was a sight he wanted to commit to memory.

Victor hung his head, and his eyes disappeared behind his hair. In the silence of the room, Yuuri could hear Victor swallowing, and then his voice coming out much more subdued than it’d ever sounded.

“…I’m the violin?”

Yuuri nodded, realizing one second too late that it was useless to nod at someone who wasn’t looking at you.

“Yeah.”

He lifted his head again and leaned over the table, stretching his hand, silently asking for Yuuri’s but still not quite looking at him. Yuuri complied, and for the second time that day, Victor kissed his hand.

“Yuuri…” He played a little with his ring finger before continuing, his eyes fixed on his hand. “Let me skate to it.”

Yuuri blinked, lost. “Skate to what?”

“ _On My Love_.”

Silence.

Victor already had his FS more or less complete. At first he’d been working on the choreography with only Yuuri’s rough piano solo of _You Only Live Once_ , and then he’d had the actual song to work with – it’d been recorded a couple of weeks ago, despite Yuuri not being entirely satisfied with the arrangement. Victor had spent most of July working on the routine, and Yakov had seen it and approved of it; there were things to adjust, but it was essentially finished.

He still needed a gala exhibition routine, though, as far as Yuuri knew. But surely there were better pieces to skate to?

“I’m always asking for all of your pieces, I know,” he smiled a little, clearly more out of reflex than anything, “but this one is different.” He finally looked at him again. “It’s you. I want to skate to you.”

Yuuri’s heart collapsed into itself.

“It’s yours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND HERE WE ARE AT LAST!!! \o/  
> I can't believe they finally kissed, I'm so proud. I, the author, have been waiting for this for a long time. Funny, you'd think I'd have control over this, but... *shakes head*  
> I said in a couple of comments on the last chapter that I'd update either on Monday or Tuesday, ooops! Sorry! I failed to factor Work in that equation *sighs*  
> Thanks to all those who have been reading, leaving kudos, comments and subscribing! Like Victor said: fans uplift you. ^_^  
> Thanks as usual to my beta, couldn't do it without her!  
> Feel free to tell me what you think either here on the comments or over [tumblr](http://thehobbem.tumblr.com/)! I'm always there, can't seem to leave that hellhole XD


	10. Even the sound of your voice is still new

“Flights to Detroit, huh?”

Yuuri nearly jumped: he turned around to find Mari standing behind him.

The living room was empty now, with most guests already out and about visiting the touristic spots in Hasetsu after breakfast. Victor and Yuuri had taken one of the earliest trains back to Hasetsu so that Victor had enough time to pack. While he was upstairs trying to fit all his (numerous, too numerous) belongings (that had somehow multiplied during his stay) in his suitcases, Yuuri had headed for the silent living room, unsure of what to do with the rest of his morning — but before he’d realized it, he’d begun searching for flights.

“About time, little bro.”

Yuuri raised his eyebrows. “Yes, I missed you too, nee-chan,” he replied drily, but she just poked one foot lightly into his ribs and plopped down next to him on the floor. “You know what I mean. I was wondering, but…” she nodded towards the phone, where the Japan Airlines website was still open, with a search for Fukuoka-Detroit flights, “…I’m not anymore, if you’re looking for one-way tickets.”

She’d nailed it as usual, so Yuuri didn’t bother to answer. Mari had always been the one asking Yuuri the hard-hitting questions because she trusted he could take it.

He’d spent his first 10 years of life following Mari around (and oh did their mom have the embarrassing pictures to prove it!). She’d been there long before he’d started being aware of himself – older, much older, going to school on her own, working at the inn in her free time, dying her hair and getting piercings and being effortlessly sure of herself; she’d helped Yuuri when he’d needed, listened to him complain about “stupid Takeshi” from the ice rink, suggested the best place to tape his new poster of that Russian skater on his wall and convinced their parents to get the dog he wanted. Always too many steps ahead of him, seven years too wide an age gap for him to bridge on his own — but always stretching a hand to him from the other side and waiting for him to catch up.

Now they were both adults and the age gap just a number, but the stretched out hand was still there.

“For the 25th already?” She blew a quiet ring of smoke in the air. “Why so soon?”

“I guess… I’m done thinking?” He answered with a small smile, and received another from her.

“Seems like your answer found you, then.”

Yuuri frowned. “What do you mean?”

She leaned back on her arms and stared at the ceiling, as if she were reading her next words off it. “Most people find an answer after thinking a lot, but no one said an answer can’t come by plane and knock on our door asking for music,” she finished, turning to her brother with a wide grin.

He made no effort to fight the blush but he did poke her on her side, exactly where he knew she was the most ticklish. And he knew it because, as unlike each other as they were, they happened to be ticklish in all the exact same places. It wasn’t a Katsuki thing, their parents weren’t ticklish at all. It was a Mari-Yuuri thing.

She yelped and swatted his hand away, and he went back to his phone with a victorious smile. They sat in silence for a few minutes, Yuuri going through the options available on the website while his sister watched.

“Hmm? Economy class? With all the money the studio makes selling those soundtracks, I thought you could at least fly business.”

“Well, I can, I just… don’t,” he mumbled.

Even with money to spare Yuuri couldn’t bring himself to spend it on unnecessary luxuries, the frugal Katsuki habits too ingrained in him. Instead he just sent most of it to Yu-topia.

He felt Mari’s unwavering eyes on him and when he looked up, her face had softened into a small smile; not for the first time, he marveled at how much she looked like their father. She’d gotten their father’s soft features, while he’d gotten his bad drinking antics.

“You’re a cheap little thing, aren’t you?” she said, not without affection. Then she pointed upstairs, her eyes glinting with something mischievous. “You should learn from your Russian boyfriend and spend a bit more on yourself.”

Yuuri watched in horror as Mari’s mouth slowly turned upwards into a grin, in perfect time with the flush he could feel creeping up his neck.

“He… he’s not my boyfriend.”

“Really? Could’ve fooled me.” She stood up with a groan and headed for the door. Before she left, she gave him one last look over her shoulder: “If he’s not your boyfriend, it’s not for lack of him trying.”

“Mari, really…” but she was already out of the room.

He grimaced at the phone in his hands, the screen already faded to black. As he double tapped it, Mari stuck her head through the door once again.

“Just buy the damn business ticket and spoil yourself a little.” And then she was really gone.

With a sigh, Yuuri clicked on an economy class seat.

 

* * *

 

Victor looked around the empty bedroom. All of Maccachin’s toys that had laid strewn about the room, all the knick knacks he’d bought, most everything was stowed away in suitcases (though not without a fight). All that remained was a bed, a nightstand, a table with a chair and a couple of paintings on the walls. He was leaving nothing behind.

Well, maybe one thing.

He headed downstairs. It didn’t take him long to find Yuuri and Maccachin in the garden, lying side by side on the grass and basking in the sun with their eyes closed. He almost clutched his own chest: Yuuri had taken off his glasses, his face peaceful and smooth in the morning light and one arm hugging Macca; from the doorway Victor could also hear Maccachin’s faint content snore, and she sounded like she was exactly where she wanted to be. They were both so easily tangled in each other, so comfortable it made Victor’s heart twinge, and he wondered if what he was looking at could be a piece of forever.

Because right now Victor just— he could see it. He could see Yuuri lying on his couch with Macca, just like that. On Victor’s couch in Saint Petersburg. Or on his bed, right before waking up. The sun usually hit his bedroom that exact same way in the early morning and Yuuri… could be there. Someday. If he wanted. If he wanted Victor for more than a couple of days, for more than a bit of stolen time in the summer. All he had to do was ask and he could be there, on Victor’s bed in the morning, with that hint of a smile and pillow marks all over his face.

(The pillow marks that he liked a bit too much.)

(Did he have a thing for pillow marks now?)

Yuuri seemed to sense his presence there and opened his eyes, turning his head and squinting at him — squinting hard as no glasses & sunlight didn't make for the best combination — and smiled.

(No, it wasn’t a pillow marks thing; if Yuuri had dandruff then by _gods_ would Victor find it irresistible too. He was that far gone.)

“Hey,” Yuuri murmured, “you wanted Maccachin? Sorry for hogging her.”

He laughed softly. “I wanted you, _solnyshko_ ,” he clarified as he sat down next to him, watching Yuuri’s eyes grow slightly bigger before he smiled again. By his side, Maccachin snored a little louder.

And to think that she was the one who got to sleep next to Yuuri first. Little traitor.

Yuuri propped himself up on his elbows and put his glasses back on, still with that serene smile and Victor— Victor _had_ to touch him. Had to try and get a grasp on that forever dangling right in front of him.

(And would you look at those blades of grass conveniently tangled in Yuuri’s hair.) 

Slowly, gently, Victor began picking the grass from his hair, and the pink blooming on Yuuri’s cheeks mirrored the warmth in Victor’s chest: the feeling of Yuuri’s hair running smoothly between his fingers was something he'd been craving for months.

He picked blade after blade without a word, with only the morning birds and Maccachin’s soft snores causing ripples in the silence around them.

“Listen Yuuri,” he began, voice low and fingers now doing nothing more than carding through Yuuri’s hair, the grass long gone. “What do you think…” he trailed off: Yuuri had closed his eyes and relaxed into his touch.

Victor’s throat went dry. Whatever he’d been about to say was suffocated by the violence of his heart trying to thump a hole through his chest.

“I, uh… I…” Yuuri opened his eyes, and Victor cleared his throat.

_Get it together._

“Um. I was thinking. Would you like to go on a date tonight?”

“A date?” Yuuri echoed, surprised.

“Mmm-hm,” Victor nodded, his hand trailing down to Yuuri’s cheek. “You and me, dinner somewhere nice, and me hoping I get to kiss you at the end of the night. A date.” Yuuri blushed as furiously as Victor had hoped he would, but had yet to break eye contact. Victor could feel his own skin fizzing under those eyes. He smiled. “That is the correct word, yes? You’re the American citizen, so you tell me.”

Yuuri chuckled. “Yeah, that’s the word. But…” He looked away and chewed the inside of his cheek for a second.

Oh.

Victor’s heart dropped from a ten-story building.

Yuuri was about to say no.

He was thinking of how to turn him down nicely, wasn’t he? Victor had spent the entire train ride back googling places in Hasetsu and exchanging messages with Yuuko, asking her for tips of where to take Yuuri, but not once had it occurred to him that Yuuri might just not want to go on a date with him.

Well. Well, he’d just… have to accept it, right? But. _But_.

“But?”

Yuuri’s eyes went back to his — straight into his, unabashedly, his head cocked to the side. “Do I only get to kiss you at the end of the night?”

“Well, that’s the— oh.” Victor’s eyes flew wide. “You mean…”

He didn’t know how to continue. The last time he’d been thrown this off-balance he’d still been in the novice level.

(That Yuuri)

Yuuri sat up, finally on eye level with Victor, and casually brushed the grass off his elbows; only he could feign nonchalance while blushing.

(He knew that Yuuri, didn’t he)

“I mean, we _have_ kissed before, so I was wondering if the waiting part was really necessary,” he explained, his voice light and his eyes still looking for more leaves to brush off, and then they focused on Victor again. Almost daring.

(He hadn’t seen that Yuuri in a while, but he knew him)

(That Yuuri was impossible to look away from)

Victor might be shaky on his legs, but if there was one thing Victor Nikiforov could do other than skating, it was smiling. He was famous for it.

“Well, no, not really. You can do it whenever you feel like it, _solnyshko_ ,” he answered with his best smile, the one he knew never failed to charm people. Because two could play that game.

Their faces were so close now. He could practically taste Yuuri’s breath on his lips. Yuuri inched even closer to Victor and murmured, “Good.”

( _Let’s tango, you and I_ )

Yuuri stood up and Victor blinked.

That Yuuri was smiling down at him.

“I’ll pick you up at six.”

And leaving. Unceremoniously. Turning around and leaving, with that easy, light grace to his walk that always resurfaced when he wasn’t busy overthinking. Victor’s stomach flipped on itself, watching him.

 Watching him seduce and then leave.

 (Eros Yuuri.)

 “Wait. You’ll… what? Yuuriiii!”

 

* * *

 

Yuuri took a deep breath, not as calming as he’d hoped, before leaving his bedroom. After almost an hour with Phichit on skype – during which he’d been scolded once again for not packing his best clothes for Hasetsu ( _“How was I supposed to know Victor Nikiforov would show up and ask me on a date?!” “Always. Be. Prepared! Yuuri, have I taught you nothing?!”_ ) – he’d finally agreed to wear jeans and _“that three-quarter sleeve shirt that makes you look hot and is easy to take off” (“Why is that relevant?” “Well, the goal here is for you to be wearing_ nothing _at the end of the night, so the faster to take off, the better.” “Phichit!”_ ). The Hair And Glasses Debate had taken another 20 minutes, with a comb-the-hair-back-but-keep-the-glasses compromise being reached in the end.

He was obviously not looking to “be wearing nothing at the end of the night”, but… it didn’t hurt to be looking his best either.

_“And me hoping I get to kiss you at the end of the night.”_

Those words fluttered wildly in the pit of his stomach every time he remembered them. As if Victor would be the only one hoping.

They’d kissed for the first time when Victor had rushed into the green room; they’d kissed for the second time at his bedroom door at the hotel, endlessly, forever, only stopping when Yuuri’s stomach grumbled loudly, and then after dinner, before Victor had gone back to his own bedroom for the night – kissed too deeply and way too shortly. And finally, long and lazily in the car this morning, on the way to the train station, and Yuuri had been astonished to realize that he didn’t care one bit about what the driver might be thinking. If the driver had any common sense, he’d be envious of Yuuri’s inexplicable good luck.

Still, it didn’t matter how many times they’d already kissed: this – whatever _this_ was – was too fragile, intangible, too easily confused with something real. He was keenly aware that every second he could steal from Victor’s time, every kiss he could steal from Victor’s lips, was a favor bestowed on him, never a certainty.

He looked nervously at his watch: 5:59 pm. He silently crossed the hallway and stood in front of Victor’s door. Last night (had it really only been a day?) Victor had shown up at his hotel bedroom at 5 o’clock sharp, the exact time agreed. Every time they’d made arrangements for anything Victor had been impeccably punctual, so it was safe to assume he’d probably be ready now.

Another deep, shaky breath and he knocked precisely at 6 pm. It was light, so light a knock that for a brief moment he wondered if Victor would even hear it, but the door swung open in a few seconds.

Victor stood in the doorway in form-fitting dark pants and a black button down that accentuated his broad chest, reminding Yuuri almost painfully of how well he fit there when he was in Victor’s arms. How could Victor simply open the door and stand there as if him existing was acceptable? With that impossibly ethereal hair and that jawline that sharpened Yuuri’s yearning and tore his heart in shreds? With those eyes that made him forget that this thing between them was a temporary arrangement?

Yuuri should’ve never agreed to this. This had been a bad idea, how was he even supposed to function now?

Part of him wanted to go back to his bedroom and cry until he could finally wake up from this fever dream that was Victor, but another part just wanted to drag Victor back into the bedroom and make that dream into a tangible reality.

Neither of them said a word for a few moments, Victor’s eyes slowly sweeping down all of Yuuri, his lips parted half in surprise and half in something Yuuri would’ve labeled as wonder, if he didn’t known that, between the two of them, Yuuri had all the reasons to be in awe and Victor none.

When he finally spoke, it was to stop himself from staring at Victor’s lips.

“Told you I’d pick you up at six.”

The half-parted lips stretched into a full-blown smile. “I guess you did. I hope you found the place okay!”

Yuuri shrugged with a grin. He would’ve picked Victor up in Siberia at six, if he’d wanted him to. “It was all right. But I gotta say, you’re the first escort to make me pick them up at their place, instead of the other way around.”

Victor’s eyes widened at yesterday’s escort joke making a comeback, and then the smile returned - a bit lopsided and far from that cold beauty plastered on the posters; so much more imperfect and so much more charming.

“Well, in that case, I’ll make sure it is worth your time, Mr. Katsuki!”

That wink, though. That shameless wink was the very same, but more irresistible in person than Yuuri had ever believed it possible – and the way he brushed his thumb along Yuuri’s cheekbone was downright foul play.

Just like the way his voice dropped low as he spoke next. “What you said about having to wait until the end of the night for a kiss … how are we on that?”

Would he always have a thing for Victor’s voice? Probably.

Definitely.

Yuuri unconsciously licked his lips, and Victor’s thumb trailed down to his mouth.

“Um, yeah, I… I don’t see the point.” He blinked, a little dazed. “In waiting, I mean.”

His heart pounding in his chest and the eternal violin that was Victor were the only things he could hear right now; of all the things Yuuri did not want to do, ever, sucking Victor Nikiforov’s thumb just a few steps away from his parents’ bedroom was at the very top of that list – but if Victor didn’t stop slowly running his thumb across Yuuri’s bottom lip, that was exactly what would happen.

As if reading his mind, Victor cupped his face with both hands, with his voice still too low for Yuuri to be able to think. “Yeah?”

His face was so close that Yuuri was sure they were stealing breath right out of each other’s lungs, and that was _fine_. He brought his hands up to lightly rest on Victor’s wrists, and he was going to answer with a nod, he really was, that was the original plan, but his body seemed to have other ideas and he ended up kissing him instead.

He felt Victor smile against his mouth before he kissed him back, and all the tension in him melted away, leaving nothing behind but the taste of Victor, still new, still overwhelming.

This might be their fifth kiss (he was beginning to lose count, and dear god he wanted nothing more than to lose count of Victor’s kisses), but for all that Yuuri was used to it, it might’ve been their first. He was still learning the way Victor’s mouth moved, the warm taste of his tongue and the smile that sometimes made its way into their kiss. Still learning the way Victor’s hands slowly strayed down to the small of his back and pulled him closer. The way he gently bit Yuuri’s bottom lip now, though, that was new, and he _definitely_ wanted to learn a whole lot more of that.

It was only the nagging thought of them standing in the middle of the hallway, where both his family and the guests could walk by any second, that had Yuuri reluctantly breaking away from the kiss.

His eyes were still closed as he tried to form a coherent sentence. “We, uh… here is… we should…”

He heard Victor breathe out a tiny laugh and opened his eyes: Victor still had his eyes shut, and didn’t seem any more inclined to stop kissing than Yuuri.

“Oh _solnyshko_ , the things we should. But yes,” he added, opening his eyes and smiling, “we should go.”

 

~

 

They were quickly seated at the Country Flower, and how exactly Victor had managed to take him to his favorite restaurant in town was a mystery for the ages. If asked to guess a place in Hasetsu where Victor would choose to have dinner, Yuuri would’ve immediately thought of La Vue D’Or, the elegant (and expensive) restaurant that served a pretentious fusion of Japanese and French cuisine and had a gorgeous view of the bay, waiters with crisp, immaculate white shirts and faux leather menus.

Instead there they were, sitting on tatami mats around a low table in a small, homely Japanese restaurant, where everything was cozy and the owner knew Yuuri by name. He couldn’t have asked for more.

The conversation revolved about a ton of things and nothing in particular while they waited for the food, with Victor pouting when Yuuri refused to have beer or any other kind of alcoholic drink with him.

“Yuu _riiii_ , drinking by myself is not half as fun!”

“You’re not by yourself. I’m still here, with my orange juice.”

Another pout, and Yuuri had to roll his eyes so as not to lean over the table and kiss those pouting lips right there. Victor had no right to be that kissable in public.

“Victor, I’m not…” he lowered his voice, even though they hadn’t been talking loud to begin with, “I’m not good with drinks. Remember the banquet?”

“Of course. One of us has to!”

Yuuri’s only answer was to groan, to Victor’s clear amusement. “I’d say you’re _very_ good with drinks. The amount of champagne you had that day would’ve sent most people to the hospital. If anyone can drink, it’s you!”

“Yeah, but the results are far from ideal,” Yuuri replied drily, and Victor chuckled.

“I beg to differ, _kotyonok_ ,” he said with a sly smile and a gulp of his beer.

Okay, that Russian word was different from the one Victor normally used with him, and Yuuri still didn’t know what either of them meant, only that he just might have a thing for Victor using them. He really should’ve taken that Russian course he’d had his eyes on a few years ago (and on which he’d given up completely once Phichit had seen the informative pamphlet. _“Yuuri, this is a great idea! That way you can romance Nikiforov in his own language when you finally meet him!”_ Yuuri had thrown the pamphlet in the trash without a word).

“Well, be that as it may, I’ve never been drunk in Hasetsu, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

“What, never?!”

“No, I… I went to Detroit when I was 15, been there ever since. No one here has ever seen me drinking. Only Minako-sensei,” he added with a small smile. That had been quite the night, with both of them trying to drink the other under the table, and an unpleasant morning to wake up to.

Victor looked at him for a baffled second, then put his glass down and stretched one hand across the table with his palm up, an invitation that Yuuri was more than happy to accept. He laced their fingers together, getting one of those warm smiles that seemed to be involuntary from Victor.

“Yuuri,” he said in a gentle voice, “we have to fix that. We have to get you drunk right here.”

Yuuri yanked his hand away and leaned back, trying not to smile at the sound of Victor’s laughter; he smiled, smirked and chuckled a lot, but open laughter? He could count those in one hand, it was so rare.

Open Victor was so rare.

The food arrived: a selection of yakitori, agedashi tofu and barbecue rice balls that sparked that distractingly heart-shaped smile on Victor’s face. They ate in companionable silence for some time – for Yuuri, a first on a date. He’d had precious few dates so far, none of which had ever been satisfactory or completely comfortable; there was always a nagging sensation that he _had_ to talk and prove himself an all-round pleasant companion. With Victor, however, there was no pressure. He could talk or he could retreat into his shell, and Victor would still be there.

For the time being, at least. And “the time being” was less than a day, as Victor’s plane would leave Fukuoka the next evening at 7 pm.

After that…

He lifted his head at the sound of Victor’s voice.

“Sorry?”

Victor was looking at him with a small, fond smile that made Yuuri’s chest hurt. “I asked you when you’re going back to Detroit.”

“Oh. I, um… I’m going back in four days, actually.”

“What, really? That’s great!”

Yuuri frowned, confused. “Why is that great?”

Victor looked away, towards the rest of the restaurant, which was still not crowded – it wouldn’t be on a Thursday – and ran a hand through his hair. Yuuri’s eyes followed the movement, while he absent-mindedly wondered why Victor was nervous. The hand-through-the-hair was a tell he’d noticed a while ago.

“Well, I, uh, I was wondering. I –” the waiter arrived with another glass of beer for him and he thanked him with an automatic smile. “It’s just that you… you live in Detroit.”

Yuuri’s eyebrows darted up. “Um… yes?”

“I mean,” Victor shook his head, the confusion on Yuuri’s face probably clear as day, “I was wondering if you would… well, if you’re going to be... you know your friend will compete at Skate America?” He finished a little weakly.

“Oh. Yes, of course! And you too.”

Victor nodded, still hesitant, his gaze flitting from Yuuri to his own glass before he took another swig from it.

As Yuuri distractedly played with the straw in his glass, he watched Victor’s adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed and then it hit him: Victor wanted to ask him if he would watch Skate America. If he would be there at the arena.

If they would see each other there.

Which Victor… possibly didn’t want to happen.

It made sense. It was one thing for them to… do whatever it was that they were doing right now (Victor had called it a date, but based on his own past experiences, a date didn’t mean much) here, in Hasetsu, a small secluded town away from the world Victor actually lived in. But he was going back to that world tomorrow. Skate America would be in three months from now, plenty of time for Victor to put this, them, behind him.

[ _He’ll be leaving you behind in a day, and have forgotten all about you in two. He doesn’t want to be reminded of a meaningless summer fling in the middle of the skating season._ ]

At the feeling of something jagged under his fingers, Yuuri glanced down: the straw in his hands was half in shreds already from his nervous fidgeting.

(That was what they were, right? A meaningless summer fling.)

He rubbed his palms on his jeans to keep from completely destroying the straw, and soon his nails begun to dig into his thighs.

(And he knew that. He’d always known.)

(But it still stung.)

What should he say to that?

“I got you a pass,” Victor blurted out, setting his glass down.

The words rang in his ears so suddenly that it took Yuuri longer than he was proud of to make them out.

“You… what? You got me a pass?”

“For Skate America,” Victor explained, twiddling his empty glass and avoiding his eyes. “A visitor’s pass. So you can be there. You know, not just watching from the bleachers, but…” he finished with a shrug.

Yuuri stared wordlessly. Did that mean Victor wanted him there?

Maybe “want” was too strong a word. But it definitely meant Victor didn’t mind Yuuri being there. He felt the stiffness he hadn’t noticed before in his shoulders wash off him all at once, and his hands finally let go of his thighs.

It also meant Yuuri would finally be able to watch Phichit compete in person. His friend had never been assigned to Skate America before, and Yuuri had never been available to watch him somewhere else - but a visitor’s pass would allow him to be by Phichit’s side every step of the way.

“Wow. Victor, this is… thank you,” he finally replied, trying to convey how grateful he was in those two simple words. It was not enough, but Victor gave him a half-smile, his eyes focused solely on his own finger slowly circling the rim of his glass.

“You got the whole thing,” he continued. “All three days, you can go anywhere you want, in and out of the arena anytime you want.”

“Thank you so much!” Yuuri smiled, and Victor lifted his eyes to him. Whatever he saw on Yuuri’s face made him add, a bit hurriedly:

“And Rostelecom. And Barcelona.”

Yuuri blinked. Gave himself a little time to process that.

No, that had to be wrong.

What he understood was very likely not what Victor meant, so he retraced everything they’d said. Coming up empty, he had no choice but to spell out what he’d understood – waiting for Victor to correct him and, hopefully, not laugh at his poor understanding skills.

“You… got me a visitor’s pass for the Rostelecom Cup and the GP Final in Barcelona?”

Bafflingly, impossibly, Victor nodded, this time looking straight at him.

“Yes. Same thing, all three days, you can go everywhere. You can be at the kiss and cry, if you want.”

“But… but Phichit…” he tried feebly. That made no sense. “Phichit is not competing at the Rostelecom.”

Silence. Victor ran a hand wet from the condensation of the glass through his hair again, getting his bangs slightly damp.

“Yes, but… I am?”

Seeing Yuuri not moving or answering, just blinking helplessly at him, Victor seemed to give up and stretched his hand over the table one more time, asking for his in turn. Yuuri gave it to him automatically – as if he wouldn’t give him anything he asked.

Surely they were getting lost in translation somewhere? It was more than possible, neither of them was speaking in their native languages. Maybe what Victor wanted to say only made sense in Russian; maybe his English was failing him. It was his third language after all. Maybe he was thinking in French?

Victor gave his hand a soft squeeze. “I know it’s a lot to ask, and you don’t have to do it, of course, but. If you could, if you wanted to, I’d be more than happy to see you there.”

“You… want me to go see you at the competitions?” He had to confirm, because – because ‘I’d be happy to see you’ could easily not be the same as ‘I want to see you’.

Victor brought Yuuri’s wrist to his lips and kissed it, lightly, repeatedly, and Yuuri felt his stomach free falling.

“I’d like nothing more, my Yuuri.”

Yuuri swallowed. The way his heart was swelling in his chest was obviously unnatural and he had to have it checked. Before that could happen, however, he’d stay right here and revel in the sound of Victor calling him ‘my Yuuri’, in the feeling of being kissed like he was being adored.

When Victor let go, pressing one final kiss onto his palm, Yuuri’s heart was in shambles; to try and hide it at least a little, he took a sip from his (now lukewarm) orange juice before answering.

“I can’t make any promises about Rostelecom,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “The studio called me today, I might start working on another score? But if I can… then, yeah,” he added with a shy smile – a smile mirrored and then amplified a thousand times by Victor.

“As for Barcelona… we’ll cross that bridge when we get there, I guess?” Then he mumbled, “Can’t believe you got me a pass for the final before the competition even started. Someone thinks a lot of himself.”

Victor’s laugh was so loud this time a couple of heads turned in their direction. Yuuri couldn’t be bothered to care.

“A skater can hope, Yuuri!” Victor protested, good-humoredly. Yuuri raised his eyebrows with a skeptical “sure.” It was something Yuuri himself would’ve never done – it’d be like composing a song or a score for a movie and immediately start looking for a date for the Oscars – but when you were the Living Legend, you probably couldn’t help the thought that you would qualify for the GP Final yet again.

But he could still tease. “And if you don’t qualify, I’m still going to enjoy seeing Yurio there.”

Victor gasped. “ _Yuuuu_ ri, how can you be this mean?!”

 

~

 

It was late afternoon, even though it felt early. Too early. Too soon.

A thousand snippets of conversation hummed around them, intertwined with an indifferent voice making flight announcements that echoed throughout the airport, just like they should. And yet, it was all muted somehow, because Victor had his hand in his one last time.

(One last time.)

“This is it then.”

“Yeah. Um, text me when you get home? Just… for us to know.”

Victor smiled at him. One last time.

“Of course, _solnyshko_. But you’ll probably be sleeping when I get there.”

Yuuri shifted on his feet, looking away and watching a young couple laugh and go through the gate. Together.

He looked back at Victor. “It’s okay, I… we want to know that you got home safe. No matter the time.”

For a moment Yuuri thought Victor was going to say something, but if he was he changed his mind, nodding and squeezing his hand instead. His smile was still there, still warm, still only for Yuuri – but coated in a layer of something that matched what was draining Yuuri’s heart, leaving it empty of the glow of the last three months.

One quiet, hollow heartbeat – and Victor was kissing his cheek.

A beat that his heart skipped – and Victor pressed their foreheads together.

A dozen beats that drummed all at once – and Victor whispered, his breath warm and unforgettable on Yuuri’s skin, “See you in October”.

A stuttering beat – and he whispered back, “See you.”

His face and hands felt colder, already missing Victor. Yuuri watched as their hands disentangled from one another, as Victor grabbed his suitcase and looked at him one last time with that undefinable smile and went through the gate. As he had his boarding passed checked again, and then disappeared around a corner.

Yuuri had always prided himself in choosing good titles for his own music. He was good at extracting the core of a piece or a song and expressing it in a few short words. Music was something (maybe the only thing) he truly understood.

But not even he had foreseen how accurate “You Only Live Once” really was.

 

* * *

 

Trying not to disturb the 3 AM silence in his apartment building, Victor fumbled around in his pocket for his keys; they were attached to his old poodle keychain - a birthday present from a 10-year-old Yuri Plisetsky, back when Yurio wasn’t too embarrassed to show affection and Victor wasn’t a living legend.

He struggled for some seconds. It was the nature of keys to go into locks, why was this one fighting it now? Was he that jet-lagged? Thirteen hours of planes and airports would do that to you, but surely he cou– oh.

Stupid.

That was the key to the Ice Castle.

Yuuko had offered it to him on his second day in Hasetsu, and Yuuri had sensibly talked her out of it. The offer had been renewed after his first month there, however, which he’d been grateful for. Having a key meant he didn’t have to bother the Nishigoris all the time.

Now his hands had automatically chosen it instead of the key to his own house.

“Your dad is a moron, Macca,” he mumbled to the poodle, but she barely reacted. She was as exhausted as he was, if not more. He at least had slept on the flight between Seoul and Saint Petersburg, but Macca had probably gotten no rest.

When he finally opened the door, Macca dragged herself tiredly onto the couch. Victor took off his coat and hung it on the rack by the door, his eyes sweeping the whole room as he flipped the light switch and took off his shoes. Everything was as it had always been.

The ample spaces, the white, empty walls, the lonely couch in front of the slick TV (that he barely watched), the horrible chair/coat rack Georgi had given him a few years back and that he’d never had the courage to throw away. All of that for someone who was hardly ever there.

And now that he was, he didn’t want to be. Not when he’d just seen what life was supposed to look and feel like. Taste like. When he knew that even he was allowed to have some of it.

He negligently abandoned the luggage in the middle of the living room with a sigh, and squirmed a little to fit on the couch next to Maccachin. Macca was the most wonderful dog in all of Creation, he wouldn’t change her for the world; but she was also the most selfish when it came to allowing Victor to sit on his own couch or lie on his bed.

It’d be around 9 AM in Hasetsu now, and whether Yuuri would be awake or not was the million dollar question. He’d been waking up early for their morning runs, after having finally adjusted his sleeping schedule to something that resembled a human being’s, but you never knew with Yuuri.

You really, really never knew with Yuuri.

 

 **03:05 [Me]** Yuuuuuuri! I’m home! ♡♡♡

 **03:06 [Katsuki Yuuri ♥]** good im glsd

 **03:07 [Katsuki Yuuri ♥]** how wsa thebfikght

 **03:07 [Katsuki Yuuri ♥]** flight

 

Victor’s snort startled Maccachin, and he quickly soothed the poodle back to sleep. That a clearly sleepy Yuuri had woken up to answer his messages was unprecedented, a courtesy that was never extended to anyone, not even Phichit.

And they said romance was dead.

He typed a quick reply to allow Yuuri to go back to sleep, and flopped on the couch. The guests at Yu-topia would be having breakfast now, and the Katsukis were probably going in and out the kitchen incessantly. And what would Yuuri do when he woke up? He might go for a run, if it weren’t too late in the morning, or he might skip breakfast altogether and have lunch (which, _really_. Yuuri’s sleeping and eating habits were a hot mess). And then what? What would his day be like without Victor around? They’d talk on Skype later, but until then…

He groaned. Three in the morning and he didn’t feel sleepy in the slightest; exhausted, yes, but restless, and as he stared at the ceiling with Maccachin snoring on top of him, he knew there was no chance of going to bed anytime soon.

Victor started counting the minutes until October.

 

* * *

 

“It’s… not really like that.”

Phichit stared at him incredulously, sitting at the edge of the bed while Yuuri carefully folded some laundry and avoided eye contact even more carefully.

It wasn’t easy to explain (and Phichit’s refusal to accept anything less than an utterly romantic _and_ graphic story didn’t exactly help), but the truth was that he had no idea where he and Victor stood at the moment. Or if they stood at all.

After he’d gotten back to Detroit, Phichit had allowed him three days to “detox from jet lag” – more due to past experiences with Moody Jet-Lagged Yuuri than the kindness of his heart. Were it not for that, Phichit would’ve picked him up at the airport and started the Victor Inquisition right at the gate.

But now the time for The Conversation was finally here.

Phichit laid a hand on his shoulder, his face suddenly solemn, and Yuuri braced himself: Solemn Phichit never bode well.

“Yuuri, listen: you know I love you, right? You’re my best friend. The one person I trust my hamsters with. The beacon that guides me to shore when I’m lost at sea. My better half.”

Yuuri sighed. “Beautiful. But?”

“But you don’t understand shit.”

“That’s... less beautiful.”

The flair with which Phichit threw himself on Yuuri’s bed could’ve put most Victorian heroines to shame; all he was missing was a panning shot of the English moors and a broody romantic interest with an income of ten thousand pounds a year. Yuuri made a mental note to try and keep him away from Victor during Skate America – or, failing that, to stay away from them altogether. A Nikiforov-Chulanont Duo was more than he could handle.

“You don’t deserve my beauty, Katsuki Yuuri, not until you give me some truth,” Phichit sighed, staring miserably at the ceiling as if it had personally wronged him and his entire family.

“Fine. You want the truth?” Yuuri leaned in to whisper conspiratorially in his ear. “You should be helping me fold the laundry.”

Phichit sat up with a pout. “Fold all the clothes you want, Yuuri, but the truth shall unfold itse–” The t-shirt Yuuri threw on his face drowned the rest.

He laughed and started folding it. “Okay, fine, but c’mon, give me _something_.”

“What more do you want to know? He’s not my boyfriend, and that’s that.”

“Right, sure, makes sense. When a guy travels halfway around the world just to see me, and lives in my house for three months, _and_ we spend three days kissing –”

“We did not spend three days kissing.”

“– _and_ invites me out on a date _and_ gets me a special pass for one of the most prestigious sports competitions in the world, asking me to come see him compete –”

“I live nearby, it’s not that big a deal.”

“You don’t live anywhere near Moscow, Yuuri,” he replied flatly. “ _And_ asks me to come watch him compete in three different countries –”

“We don’t even know if he’s gonna qualify for Barcelona.”

The only answer Phichit dignified that with was a loud snort before he continued.

“– _and_ I talk to him every day on Skype, then yeah, I don’t think of him as my boyfriend either.”

Yuuri sighed. How many times had he sighed so far? And that conversation hadn’t even been going on for ten minutes. “It’s not like that. No one said anything about dating or relationship, we just… talk every day.”

“And you really don’t think _he_ sees himself as your boyfriend?”

That made Yuuri stop and gape at him.

“Phichit. Don’t be ridiculous, of course not. Why would he?”

“Why _wouldn’t_ he?! Do you know how many people would kill to be in his shoes right now?”

“Yeah, everyone, he’s Victor Nikiforov.”

Phichit shook his head, shooting him a pitying look.

“I mean: do you know how many people would like to spend three days kissing Katsuki Yuuri?”

He rolled his eyes with a huff that sent his bangs flying from his face. “No one, Phichit, no one wants to spend three d– we did not spend three days kissing!”

That shouldn’t even be up for debate. Yuuri had never been able to get past a handful of uncomfortable first dates and even fewer second dates. That no one was tripping over themselves to kiss him was painfully obvious. Victor himself hadn’t even kissed him at the airport, aside from that kiss on the cheek.

[ _Welcome to I-Got-The-Hots-For-Katsuki-Yuurisville. Population: zero._ ]

“Um, excuse you: half of the guys at Alpha Sigma Phi?”

“Okay, you have to let go of this fantasy you created in your head.”

“They kept inviting you to their parties!”

“To play for them!” He protested. Why did Phichit have to twist things like that?

“Yuuri. _Frat houses do not throw parties with classical music_. Trust me: they wanted your ass. And what about that guy from the hockey team? That goalie?”

“Erik is just being nice.”

“And always buying you coffee whenever you drop by the rink? Pff, yeah. I don’t see him buying coffee for anyone else. Also: Elena?”

“She doesn’t… she didn’t… she’s just friendly,” he mumbled.

“Not with me, she isn’t. She’s barely friendly with Celestino! I am sorry, Yuuri, but you clearly hypnotize figure skating gold medalists. Victor’s the third one to fall in love with you.”

Yuuri choked. “Phichit, he’s not…!”

“A gold medalist?”

Yuuri glared. And to think of everyone who had ever said “oh, being Phichit’s roommate must be so much fun!” to him. Little did they know Phichit was a savage who delighted in his best friend’s crises.

That comment demanded a proper answer, but… he didn’t want to say it. Saying it would give it shape and bring it into the world; it would mean consciously acknowledging it, instead of pretending anything could be.

But maybe it was time. The earlier he did it, the more prepared he would be by the time Skate America rolled around.

He exhaled heavily. “He’s not in love with me.”

 

* * *

 

The music drew to a close and Victor halted in his final pose, arms around himself and hair and sweat covering his face. He held it for a couple of seconds before dropping his Eros persona, panting and beaming at his coach.

“Hmm. Not as bad as I thought you would be,” Yakov conceded grumpily. As if to directly contradict him, though, Mila whooped and clapped from behind the rink wall, and Georgi nodded appreciatively with some more discreet clapping.

Only Yuri was trying to pretend he wasn’t interested, his nose buried on his phone screen as he played a game he hadn’t even deigned to mute. It might’ve worked, if Victor hadn’t caught him following his routine just as avidly as their rink mates.

The grin never left Victor’s face as he skated towards the rink barrier and grabbed his water bottle; he'd performed rather well, Yakov didn’t fool him with his ‘not as bad as I thought’ - but that was not worth pointing out right now. Yakov’s face had never been one that you would be tempted to describe as ‘vastly expressive’, and the few variations it did have were microscopic, but Victor had learned every single one throughout the years – and right now, there was a particular amount of ice in his glare, a specific quiet in his usually booming voice, that made it very clear Yakov’s black list currently consisted of one name, and one name only.

The minute Yakov had greeted him that morning (too contained, too formal: a nod, a “Victor” and silence), Victor and Georgi had exchanged A Look. If you asked Yuri and Mila, still young and inexperienced, they’d say Yakov was surprisingly calm, but after more than a decade with their coach, Victor and Georgi knew better.

So he kept his jokes to a minimum, the smugness out of his smile and played it more obedient and meek than usual. For all his faults and all that they disagreed, Yakov still was the one person who’d put up with him for more than ten years. The only one who’d stayed.

He guzzled down almost half a bottle before he answered.

“I told you I was practicing every day, Yakov.”

“Hmpf. You better have been. Break, everybody,” and with that he walked away, not bothering with any further comments.

Victor sighed. He’d have to be very well-behaved over the next few days before Yakov could start looking (and shouting) at him again.

Georgi draped a comforting arm around his shoulders.

“Don’t worry, Vitya, he’ll come around eventually. You know how he is. Remember when I started skipping practice last year? He didn’t yell at me for the rest of the season,” he shuddered a little. “It was horrible.”

Right, last year had been a tense season for Georgi. With Mila distracted from practice because of the hockey player she’d been dating, and Yuri demanding more and more attention in order to win Juniors, the last thing Yakov had needed was his two male senior skaters disobeying him – so when Georgi had started missing practice twice a week to visit his new girlfriend in Moscow, Yakov had been livid. And for once, Victor had been the only one not causing him any trouble.

Hadn’t that been good while it’d lasted.

Georgi continued, a little too doleful:

“Much good that did me. She left me, Vitya. Can you believe that? After everything I did for her, after all my sacrifice, after –”

“I know, I’m really sorry to hear that,” he said hastily. Georgi might be one of his oldest friends, but he was in no hurry to get sucked into the Anya Litany. “But hey, at least now you’re in Yakov’s good graces, right?”

Yuri cursed under his breath, still struggling with whatever game he was playing, while Mila watched and teased him. How many times hadn’t he seen that same scene unfold, with the soundtrack of Georgi’s dramatic sighs (and Yakov’s occasional shouts) playing in the background? Everything was just as he’d left them.

Except for himself.

Georgi sighed, “Yeah, I guess. What about you, how did your quest go?”

“My… quest?” Victor raised an eyebrow, hearing Mila snicker behind him.

“Your quest for love, Vitya!”

Mila cackled and Yuri groaned at that. Victor couldn’t blame him.

“I did not go to Japan to find love, Gosha, I was looking for…” _everything_ “…inspiration.”

Mila leaned on his shoulder, despite Victor being much taller than her. “Oh? And did you find your ‘inspiration’?” She wiggled her eyebrows.

Ignoring the suggestive stress in ‘inspiration’, he made a grand gesture at the CD player.

“You tell me. I found _Eros_ , what do you think?”

She chuckled. “I’m sure you did!”

“Mila, really.”

“The piece is great, Vitya,” Georgi interposed helpfully, before Mila could make any further comments on Victor’s eros. “Is it Yuuri’s?”

Well, since they were on the subject… Victor grinned.

“You mean, did my boyfriend compose it? Yes, yes he did.”

Yuri spluttered so hard the other three skaters turned to look at him.

“Your… what?!”

His grin was so large now he wondered if his jaw would fall off. “My boyfriend, Yura.”

That was all he had time to say before Mila was all over him, hugging him with a strength akin to Yuuri’s.

“Vitya, that’s so great! You finally got your Pole Dancing Man!”

“I’m so happy for you, my friend,” Georgi said, reverently holding his hands as if Victor had just saved his life. “I pray that true love never leaves you.”

Yuri, however, simply stared at him with unreadable eyes. Was he mad? He’d once told him to be serious about it; well, he was, was that not what he wanted?

“You’re telling me Katsudon fucking agreed to date your sorry ass?” He asked, with his trademark Russian Punk Frown and that rude tone that always brought Victor this close to asking Yura if he would rather get a job at the docks instead of on the ice, with that sailor mouth of his.

Georgi came to his defense. “Yura, please, anyone would be lucky to have Victor.”

“You say that because you didn’t see Yuuri pole dancing last year,” Mila chuckled, still hanging from Victor’s neck. “Trust me, _Victor_ is the lucky one here, right Vitya?” She winked at him and frankly, Victor agreed. Maybe not for the same (lewd) reasons that she was thinking, but he completely agreed.

He delicately unwrapped Mila from him and stretched over the barrier to ruffle Yuri’s hair, retreating quickly with a smirk before he could swat his hand away.

“Hey, watch it, old man!”

“Yes, Yura, Katsuki Yuuri is dating my sorry ass and _you_ will be seeing him at Skate America, in case you’re wondering.”

“I’m not wondering, I don’t give a crap!”

Mila’s laugh echoed around the rink, and Georgi shook his head:

“Ah Yura, that’s not true. You spent _days_ talking –”

“Shut up!”

“– _amazing_ composer he –”

“Stop it!”

“– Yakov and Lilia and everyone here at the rink.”

“I will shove this phone so far up your –”

“He said he’s looking forward to your debut, Yura,” Victor interrupted him, before he could finish that sentence. Yakov and Lilia really had to do something about Yuri’s manners, or he’d soon be persona non grata among the senior skaters. Other skaters might be your rivals, but they were also the ones you saw everywhere you went during the season, and the only ones who understood a life on the ice. Being able to call a couple of them ‘friends’ was important, and Victor and Georgi wouldn’t be around forever; if Yuri didn’t manage to make other friends he’d be all alone in the senior division in a few years.

The distraction was successful, and Yuri stared at him before going ostensibly going back to his game, in what had to be his hundredth attempt to get past that level.

“Yeah, well. I got a thing or two to show him, so he’d better watch me.”

“Is that so?” Victor smiled, skating away from the barrier. “Well, I’ll tell my _boyfriend_ , Katsuki Yuuri, that you’re looking forward to seeing him again!”

He went for another lap around the ice, ignoring whatever Yuri was cursing at him. It didn’t matter in the slightest.

Because he, Victor, was Katsuki Yuuri’s boyfriend, and all was finally right with the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm deeply, deeply sorry for the delay. This chapter was a Certified Fight. I hated it almost as soon as I wrote it, and asked lots of people to help me with it! Looking back, I quite like the final result now. It takes me more time than I would like to write the chapters, but: this story is thoroughly planned, and there are other AUs for me to write after this one. I got this! (ง•̀_•́)ง
> 
> Also: I'm proud to announce that today is my birthday! :D So you know. Be gentle, please! ^^
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to my (vastly superior) intelectual doppelganger [onepetal](http://onepetal.tumblr.com/), who is amazing and helped me so much with this I can't even - and who's also writing [the cutest Akagami fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11585058/chapters/26034843)!
> 
> Also dedicated to the wonderful, incomparable [lucycamui](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lucycamui/works) for talking me through a day of crisis and giving me a few suggestions! If you haven't read her fandom-history-making fics, please do it as soon as possible, you'll have the time of your life.
> 
> And as per usual, infinite thanks to [Penelopedulysses](https://penelopedulysses.tumblr.com/), the beta to my beta!
> 
> UPDATE: just to let you guys know I'm still working on the fic! I wrote a whole bunch for the next chapter and then... hated it, so I'm starting from scratch. That plus real life and lots of work doesn't help, but I'm working on it! Thank you for your patience! ^_^


	11. Hold me close and hold me fast

_August 5 th _

Yuuri gasped. “He did not!”

“He did! He had to! You lose a bet, you pay the price! Besides,” Victor’s grin filled the computer screen, “it was a stupid bet. Mila had already been landing double axels in practice, of course she’d land one in competition.”

“So you’re saying,” Yuuri said slowly, because he needed to be absolutely certain he was not hallucinating this, “that if I go on Youtube and type ‘yuri plisetsky EX 2014’, I’ll find videos of a 13-year-old Yuri Plisetsky skating to _Happy_?”

“Yes.”

“…the minions song?!”

“Yes! Yura, skating to the minions song and wearing a glorious, sparkly yellow and blue costume designed by Mila!”

Yuuri spluttered and cried in his hands. When he finally raised his head again, after almost a full minute of laughing, he found a Youtube link on the chat and Victor winking at him on the screen.

“Thought I’d save you the trouble of searching.”

“Oh my god,” Yuuri whispered, clicking on the link.

 

_August 12 th _

Victor stretched and stifled a yawn. Yuuri tried to focus on the fact that Victor was tired, and not on the sliver of skin showing up when his t-shirt rode up a little.

“So you have all the routines already?”

“Yes! You saw _Eros_ , it’s pretty much the same. _You Only Live Once_ changed a lot, and I finally finished _On My Love_.”

“Can’t wait to see it!”

Victor smiled, and even through a computer screen and an internet connection that didn’t always help, that smile still made Yuuri feel all those butterflies wreaking havoc in his stomach.

“Can’t wait for you to see it too.”

 

_August 17 th _

**12:10 [Me]** Hey

 **12:10 [Victor]** Hi Yuuri!!! (*´♡`*)

 **12:10 [Me]** I’m sorry, I won’t be able to make it today

 **12:11 [Me]** got a skype meeting with the director of the new movie

 **12:11 [Me]** I might have to go tokyo soon

 **12:11 [Victor]** (╯︵╰,)

 **12:12 [Me]** I’m sorry

 **12:12 [Victor]** That’s ok, work is work! I’m just sad I won’t see you tonight! ( ´ ∀ `)ノ～ ♡

 **12:12 [Me]** (/▽＼*)

 **12:12 [Me]** ttyl?

 **12:12 [Victor]** Sure! ♡

 

_August 20 th _

“Just _yesterday_ you were saying his short program costume was the worst ever!”

“I know, I know, but I saw the free skate costume todaaaay! Yuuri,” Victor added, very solemn, “it is awful. Definitely the worst so far.”

Yuuri raised an eyebrow. “Describe it.”

“Hmm… have you seen _Frozen_?”

“Yeees…?”

“So. It’s… something like Elsa’s ice dress. But tacky. Because _she_ is fabulous, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Georgi, though…” Victor shook his head. “He’ll never learn.”

 

_August 31 st _

**20:34 [Victor]** Are you in Tokyo already?

 **20:34 [Me]** At the hotel (￣▽￣)ノ

 **20:34 [Victor]** Great! How was the flight??

 **20:34 [Me]** Plane food

 **20:35 [Victor]** Say no more. Try to have a decent dinner.

 **20:35 [Victor]** Maybe some katsudon? (^_~)

 **20:35 [Me]** Only when I finish the entire score

 **20:36 [Victor]** (°ロ°) !

 **20:36 [Victor]** OMG

 **20:36 [Victor]** Yakov’s shouting at me! ヽ(・∀・)ﾉ

 **20:36 [Me]** And you’re happy?

 **20:37 [Victor]** Long story, but yeah! 

 **20:37 [Me]** Good for you then (b ᵔ▽ᵔ)b

 **20:37 [Victor]** ♡♡♡♡♡♡

 **20:37 [Victor]** Catch you later!

 **20:37 [Me]** Sure! 

 

_September 12 th _

“So after that I just… lived with different relatives. Uncle Anton in 98, and then Uncle Denis and Aunt Lucya from 99 to 2001. Then, Cousin Ilia for a couple of years, Cousin Olga in… 2004, I think? And Aunt Maria after that. But none of them wanted to, uhh, keep me. Too much work with school and Maccachin and figure skating, so…” Victor shrugged. “I got my own place in 2006.”

Yuuri tried his best not to frown at that. How could anyone have Victor in their homes and not want him to stay? He settled for another comment.

“That’s… a big family you got there.”

Victor waved his hand. “There are many more. I have lots of…” he frowned. “What do you call cousins who are your parents’ cousins?”

“Oh.” Yuuri wrinkled his nose. “You don’t wanna go there.”

“What, why?!”

“It’s a mess. I’m not sure I understand it myself? It’s something like ‘second cousin once removed’ or ‘first cousin twice removed’ or –”

“Wait,” said Victor, blinking confusedly at the screen. “Who’s removing them?!”

 

_September 22 nd _

“So when Takeshi got his skates the next day,” Yuuri continued, “he just… he didn’t even look inside, you know? It was routine.”

“He… wait, he put them on?!”

Yuuri nodded, serious. “He did. Shoved his foot right in.”

“What happened to the worms?” Victor whispered.

“His foot squashed them.”

“Yuuri.” Victor stared at him, horrified. “How could you be so mean?”

Yuuri squirmed in his seat.

“Well… I thought a prank would make him stop picking on me. And it did, so –”

“No no no, I mean: how could you do that to the worms?”

 

_September 26 th _

“There’s my favorite girl! You’re the best girl, aren’t you? Yes, you are! And your dad is gonna travel and leave you all alone? Your dad’s mean, isn’t he?”

Maccachin’s happy face was two inches away from the screen, tongue lolling out of her mouth.

“Excuse me,” Victor’s voice interjected from behind the massive ball of brown fur, “she’s not gonna be alone, I’ll –”

“ _Excuse me_ , Mr. Nikiforov, but I’m having a conversation with the best girl.”

Yuuri heard a snort, followed by a “sorry, by all means then!”. He went on cooing at Maccachin for another whole minute, until Victor finally managed to extricate Macca from his lap and away from the laptop.

“Alright girl, that’s enough for now.” He spoke in Russian to her before turning back to Yuuri with a soft, “She misses you.”

Yuuri smiled and looked at his own hands, resting on his lap.

“Yeah, I miss her too.”

 

_October 9 th _

Yuuri shook his head. “Nope. Sorry, but you’re wrong.”

“How am I wrong?! Look:” Victor sat up straight in his chair, “Christian has no inspiration, and he believes in Love but has never _been_ in love. Then he sees Satine dance, falls in love, finds his inspiration and his whole life changes! It’s a great love story!”

“Victor, she dies.”

“Yeah, okay, but before that! How can you not like _Moulin Rouge_?!”

“I do like it. But ‘Best Musical of All Time’? I don’t think so.”

Victor reclined in his chair. “All right, then, Mr. Musician, tell me what is The Best Musical of All.”

Yuuri pushed his glasses up and looked straight into the camera – and just like that, Victor knew he was in for a Katsuki Yuuri Rant. “You want a great love story? _Singin' in the Rain_. Don doesn’t have a personal life, doesn’t know what to do with his career, but when he meets Kathy, everything falls into place. They make each other better. Instead of becoming a problem, they’re each other’s _solutions_.” Yuuri ran an excited hand through his hair, making an adorable mess out of it. “Sure, it’s not as flashy as _Moulin Rouge_ , but it’s simple, it’s sweet and when the movie is over, we know they get to be together forever. Their story goes on beyond what we see, and those are the best stories, the ones that… never end.”

Victor stared at the screen and said nothing. He could still see, clear as day, the most adorable couple he’d ever met, running an inn in a small city in Japan and growing old together. Could still remember all the times he’d envied what they had.

Yuuri was made of the same fabric as them.

“And the dancing!” Yuuri added excitedly, oblivious to Victor’s daydreams (a recurring theme, Victor would say). “Gene Kelly is amazing, and have you _seen_ the rain scene? He just... sings and dances in the middle of the street and it’s silly and wonderful and exactly what it feels like!”

“Exactly what feels like?”

“Being in love!”

Victor smiled, noticing the red deepening in Yuuri’s cheeks.

“Guess I have to rewatch it then.”

 

_October 18 th _

**05:00 [Katsuki Yuuri ♥]** Have a nice flight!

 **05:00 [Me]** Thank you!! I’ll text you when I land!

 **05:03 [Katsuki Yuuri ♥]**  Are we still on for dinner tonight?

 **05:03 [Me]** Of course!!

             **05:03 [Me]** I can’t wait!

 **05:03 [Katsuki Yuuri ♥]** ╰(*´︶`*)╯♡

 

* * *

 

“Vitya, you’re on the fifth floor. Mila, you’re in the room next to mine,” said Yakov, handing each of them their keys. Finally. They were here, they were tired, they were in for a busy day tomorrow (and the four days after that), and all he wanted was to take a shower, order a decent lunch and rest.

He wanted peace.

“Where’s my key?” demanded Yuri.

Peace he was not about to get any time soon, if it depended on his skaters. He turned around and gave Yuri a Look. Unsurprisingly, it had no effect whatsoever. Yuri Plisetsky had never been one to be easily intimidated, and his years of being exposed to Victor’s nonchalant condescension to Yakov had only made it worse.

“You’re staying with me again, kid.”

“I’m what?!”

“Told you I’d be keeping an eye on you after that stint of yours in Japan,” he grumbled. Leaving Yuri unattended back in Saint Petersburg would’ve obviously been a bad decision – if he’d left for Japan despite all the supervision, what _wouldn’t_ he do without Yakov around? With Lilia having to teach some classes at the Bolshoi Academy back in Moscow, the only option had been to bring him along to Skate America.

Yuri stared at him, his mouth open in shock – and then the shock morphed into anger when he heard Victor and Mila snicker behind him. Yakov sighed.

_Here we go._

“What are you laughing at?” said Yuri, all but growling.

Mila grinned. “I’m just wondering how many other skaters in the senior division need baby sitters.”

“Shut up, you hag!”

“Yura, stop screaming, we’re in the middle of the lobby, for God’s sake,” Yakov mumbled between gritted teeth. The lobby at the Westin was too spacious and words echoed way too easily – and there were far too many people checking in just like them. He’d already spotted coach Min-so Park and her skater not too far away, and the last thing he needed was for Yuri to embarrass him in front of his colleagues.

“Yes, Yura, where are your manners?” teased Victor, clutching his chest in that mock horror of his that colored half of his answers to Yakov’s warnings.

“Why don’t you get your manners and–”

“Yuri, get your bag and let’s go. Milena –”

Mila put up her hands in surrender, grin wide on her face. “Okay, no need for first names here, coach!”

Biting back the urge to tell Victor to stop laughing, Yakov led them into the slick-looking elevator while the bellhop took care of the rest of their luggage. He tiredly watched the numbers go by as the elevator went up and his three pupils bickered behind him.

When the doors slid open on the fifth floor, Victor stepped out and gave him one of his cheeky waves.

“Bye Yakov, see you tomorrow!”

Yakov put up one hand to stop the doors from closing.

“Shower, lunch and a quiet night in, do you hear me? No funny business.”

To be fair to Victor, he’d rarely given him anything to complain about during competitions. A couple of drunken escapades after he was of age (and one when he was fifteen that Yakov pretended he didn’t know about), and nothing else since he’d started his winning streak. But after that damn Japan madness that had come out of left field and possessed half of his best skaters, Yakov wasn’t sure of anything anymore.

Victor widened his eyes in innocent surprise. “What do you mean ‘funny business’?”

How could Victor even think the doe-eyes act still worked on him? The nerve.

“Don’t worry, I’m just going out a little tonight!”

Going out. He was going out. On the eve of the official practice, Victor was going out. He’d never done that before, why was this happening now? Was that Giacometti’s doing?

Yakov pressed a hand to his temples. 2016 really was a cursed year.

“I don’t care what you have planned,” he said, “you have better things to do than go around and have fun. You’re staying in, and that’s it.”

Victor stared at him, head cocked and thoughtful eyes.

“You want me to stay in?”

“Yes!”

“Hmm. Well. Okay then! Will do! See you tomorrow!”

“What?!”

In his surprise, Yakov let go of the door; as it slowly closed, the last thing he saw was Victor leaning sideways to catch a last glimpse of him, waving happily at all of them.

“Bye!”

Yakov stared at the electronic panel showing the numbers once again going by. That had been… so easy.

The threat of a headache was looming in the horizon, he could just feel it.

 

* * *

**16:00 [Me]:** At the hotel!

 **16:00 [Katsuki Yuuri ♥]:** Good! Get some rest!

 **16:00 [Me]:** Listen, Yakov told me not to go out tonight

 **16:01 [Me]:** Because of official practice tomorrow morning you know.

            **16:02 [Katsuki Yuuri ♥]:**  Makes sense

 **16:02 [Me]:** I was wondering if you would mind having dinner here at the hotel instead?

             **16:03 [Katsuki Yuuri ♥]:** You still want to have dinner?

 **16:03 [Me]:** Yes! ヽ(♡‿♡)ノ

             **16:04 [Katsuki Yuuri ♥]:**  Sure! I’ll be there at 8 then (⌒‿⌒)

 **16:04 [Me]:** °˖✧◝(⁰▿⁰)◜✧˖°

 

~

 

Victor stared at the clothes on the bed. He’d look more presentable if he wore that button-up shirt instead of that V-neck; on the other hand, wouldn’t it be weird to dress up and not leave the hotel?

But it was still a dinner date. Yuuri would be dressed up.

One look at the clock told him he only had ten minutes to make up his mind and put on decent clothes – despite his own personal preferences and desires on the subject, the socially acceptable thing to do was to welcome Yuuri fully dressed. Underwear Victor was something for the future.

(Victor was nothing if not made of hope.)

Button-up it was.

He wandered around the bedroom as he waited, rearranging things that did not need rearranging. Stared at the Detroit skyline outside his window without really seeing it, and checked his phone ten times in two minutes.

When the knock finally came, Victor tripped on the hem of his pants in his hurry to answer the door. And his heart nearly stopped when he opened it.

Yuuri. Looking small in a huge windbreaker and a blue scarf, his hair buried under a beanie and his face a little pink from the cold outside.

Yuuri. Happening to him all over again.

He took one hand out of his pocket and gave Victor a tiny wave. “Hey.”

Saying "hey" back and stepping aside to let Yuuri in would’ve been the usual thing to do; instead, Victor unceremoniously pulled him into a hug, because “usual” would never apply to Yuuri.

After a second of surprise, Yuuri wrapped his hands around him and snuggled up against his chest. From that up close he could probably listen to the heart condition he was giving him, as Victor finally realized what was so right about this.

“Home” had never been more than a vague childhood memory. Relatives’ houses where he’d only been tolerated – pitied at best – didn’t count, and his own apartment was merely a place for him and Maccachin to sleep. But that hug was what he remembered coming home felt like. A place you couldn’t wait to go back to, where you were wanted and waited for with open arms.

“I missed you,” he whispered.

All he heard in response was words muffled in Victor’s shirt. He had no option but to break off the hug. “What did you say?”

Yuuri’s face was pinker than before. “Really?”

“Of course!” He stared at Yuuri some more. He was here, he was finally here, he –

“Um, can I come in?”

– was still standing in the doorway.

“Yeah, sure, of course, I’m sorry! Come in!”

 

* * *

 

Yuuri was supposed to be choosing what to order, but it was hard to focus with Victor sitting right there, holding Yuuri’s hand and casually ordering dinner, as if he weren’t _him_. Victor. As in, everything the stuff dreams were made of. Dinner was so far beyond the realm of anything Yuuri could possibly want right now (unlike Victor’s thumb tracing circles on his hand and leaving trails of warmth on his skin) that the only thing he’d been able to offer the waiter so far was _and I’ll have the… the, uhhhh_...

The waiter had to be wondering what on Earth that silvery perfection of a man was doing, having dinner with a guy who, even if his hair wasn't disheveled (he really shouldn’t have worn that beanie), would be average at best. Like a C+, when he tried really hard. And across the table, holding his hand, the very embodiment of an effortless summa cum laude.

The only time Yuuri had ever seen Victor look slightly close to disheveled was after practice at the Ice Castle. Hours of skating usually made Victor’s hair fall in damp waves of silver on his face, and Yuuri constantly wondered what it’d be like to weave his hand through that. To twist it around in his fingers and pull it as –

“Sir?”

“Um, sorry, the uhh,” he cleared his throat, “the salmon. I’ll have the salmon.”

The waiter wrote down their orders, murmured a respectful “excuse me” and walked away; Yuuri gave a silent prayer of thanks that the staff there was so well-trained: the waiter had kept a straight face throughout the entire exchange, which… kudos, really. Watching a grown-up man do his best rendition of the “heart eyes” emoji couldn’t have been easy.

The conversation picked up where they’d left off, with Yuuri telling him about the music he was working on for a new movie. Victor listened to him ramble about it, his chin on his hands as if he’d never heard anything as interesting as how many meetings it took for a director and a composer to decide on music for a movie. Halfway through the story, he gently brushed a strand of hair away from Yuuri’s eyes – making Yuuri wonder how “putting words together in a manner that could be remotely called human speech” had suddenly become a lost art.

When their meal arrived, they were on a hot debate over the value (or lack thereof) of television dance contests (“Yuuri! What do you _mean_ you don’t like So You Think You Can Dance?” “It’s so… so gimmicky! And schmaltzy!” “Okay, that’s not fair, I don’t know those words”). Dinner was long finished by the time they got to the story of how Phichit had pranked an entire hockey team, and it wasn’t until Victor finished one of his Olympian tales (of a very drunk Georgi having his heart broken by a Norwegian skier), that they realized they were the only two customers left in the restaurant. All the chairs were resting on the tables and the waiters had already changed out of their uniforms, patiently (and maybe a tad passively-aggressively) waiting for the two of them to pay and leave.

It was way past midnight when the doors closed behind them with what was clearly a tired sigh from the staffer. Yuuri didn’t know whether to be amused or mortified, but when he looked at Victor out of the corner of his eye, he found him trying to keep a straight face. A lost battle, if the twitching corners of his mouth were anything to go by.

“I don’t think they like us very much in there,” said Victor in an exaggeratedly whispered hush as they walked towards the elevators. The lobby was mostly empty, except for a couple of guests checking in with a sleepy concierge; the heavy carpeting muffled their steps, but their words echoed easily in the huge open space and down the marble staircase.

Yuuri snorted. “What gave that away? The glares or the mumbling?”

“Probably a combination of both. The way he whispered ‘fucking leave’ also helped.”

“Well, the restaurant closes at eleven. Can you blame them?”

“Yuuri,” Victor replied, looking solemn, “I don’t think you understand. The Nikiforov Charm always works! I don’t know what happened tonight.”

That was most probably true. It sure worked on Yuuri. But then, Victor breathing in the same country worked on him; Yuuri was clearly an outlier and should not be counted. He raised an eyebrow. “Well, apparently, it doesn’t work after midnight.”

“Hmm…” Victor looked up at the ceiling, pretending to think. “Are you sure of that?” he said, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and bringing him closer. It was comfortable, easy, and enough to throw Yuuri’s heart out of whirl. But when Victor skimmed the tip of his fingers across his arm, his face and neck felt so hot he almost excused himself right there to brave the Michigan October night without a coat. Forget a scarf, that blush would get him through the deepest throes of winter.

Yuuri looked away, hoping to hide his face and the smile threatening to spill over. “Maybe.”

Victor chuckled and pressed a kiss on his head, fully aware he’d won the match. He pressed the elevator button in silence, refusing to let go of Yuuri one single inch, and that warm hand slightly squeezing his shoulder seemed to convey the same words from earlier.

_“I missed you.”_

Thosee words had been echoing in the smallest corners of Yuuri's mind since he'd arrived. Hearing them had been like standing at the edge of the water, staring as mermaids tried to lure you in with their song. He could’ve dived in. He could’ve said “I missed you too”, and nothing would’ve been truer.

He’d missed Victor every time he’d seen his face on his computer screen, which was ridiculous. You were supposed to miss people when you couldn’t see or talk to them, not when you were in the middle of a conversation with them. Had missed him when he went for a run in the morning and when he played his piano in the afternoon. Missed him when Victor had whispered _“I missed you”_ like a prayer, but stopped himself from saying it back.

Because saying it back would be throwing himself at the mercy of the high tides without a boat or a life jacket. Or without knowing how to swim. Bewitching and daunting all at the same time – he wanted to take the leap and he was afraid of drowning.

Yuuri only noticed they’d gotten into the elevator when the doors opened with a _ding._ He fumbled his phone out of his pocket, almost dropping it when Victor’s hand drifted down to his waist.

_“You know that dinner is a date, right?”_

_“Phichit, no one said the word ‘date’.”_

_“Does it really have to be said? If that guy’s not all over you by the end of the night, I am never watching_ The King and the Skater _again.”_

_Yuuri raised an eyebrow, saying nothing._

_“Okay, you’re right, let me rephrase that: I’m not watching_ The King and the Skater _for a year!”_

(Fine, he owed Phichit a movie marathon: _The King and the Skater, The King and the Skater II_ and _The King and the Skater: The Last Skate_. The first sequel was bland but tolerable, even if it was vastly inferior to the original, and they both loved to hate-watch _The Last Skate_.)

He looked at the hour: almost one in the morning and Victor must still be jet-lagged (Yuuri would be the last one to begrudge anyone that). The best thing to do would be to get his coat, say goodnight and leave.

The best thing to do would be the one thing he really didn’t want to do.

Victor was finally here with him, who knew when he’d have another opportunity? He might not know how long all of this would last, but knew he wanted to hold on to it for as long as possible. Even if “as long as possible” was only ten more minutes. Or one night. An entire night.

With considerable effort, he put those thoughts aside. “I, uh… I should get going. It’s late, you have to go to bed, right? Busy schedule tomorrow.”

Victor stopped with the bedroom key in his hand and leaned in, examining Yuuri’s face from up close.

“What’s wr –”

“Coach Yakov, you look so different. So much younger!”

Yuuri glared at him. “Ha ha.”

Victor winked, his face still just inches away from Yuuri’s, and added. “So much more handsome, too.”

His cheeks were heating up again, but Yuuri pushed it down; he had nothing if he didn’t have his will power. “Is this the best pick-up line you could come up with?”

Victor shrugged one shoulder with a small smile. Bashful. “Maybe. Is it working?”

 _Yes_.

“Well… ‘more handsome than Yakov’ is a really low bar to clear, so you might wanna step up your game.”

Victor pouted, and Yuuri had to make a conscious effort to tear his gaze away from those lips.

_You’re existing near me. That works well enough._

They walked in, and Yuuri made a beeline for the sofa where he’d left his things; Victor asked him something about going home that he didn’t pay attention to; his sole focus was wrapping his scarf around his neck with one hand and calling a cab on the app with the other, before he could change his mind.

The only thing he managed was to open his bank app instead, and get the scarf stuck on his glasses.

“Allow me,” Victor’s voice came from behind him, low and smooth in his ear. Yuuri stilled for a moment and turned around, while breathing became a more and more distant concept.

Gentle hands unwound his scarf and started from scratch. Slowly, carefully, and Yuuri stood perfectly still – patiently, he would’ve liked to think, though the heart slamming against his chest said otherwise. Always a telltale sign he was about to do something he both wanted and was afraid of.

A sign he was about to take a plunge.

Victor fluffed the scarf with a final touch and a quiet “done”. Step back, say “thank you”, pretend he wasn’t so completely uncoordinated that he was incapable of wrapping a scarf around his own neck and call a cab. Simple.

Not easy.

Victor’s hands slowly slid down the fabric and wrapped themselves loosely around each end of the scarf.

“Yuuri…”

Before his brain could override him, Yuuri pulled him down into a kiss.

He felt Victor freeze and for one long, terrifying second, thought he wouldn’t kiss him back – and then Victor deepened the kiss, hands raking through Yuuri’s hair, grabbing a handful of it and pulling him closer.

 _God_ , he’d missed this.

Victor’s mouth pliant and hot against his, his hands roaming on his back, that small smile that came with all of it, as if kissing Yuuri made him so happy he couldn’t help it, he’d missed this. All at once, his whole world narrowed down to one single, uncomplicated truth whispered against Victor’s lips. “I missed you too.”

Victor made a noise in the back of his throat and before Yuuri knew it, they were on the couch; Yuuri straddled his lap and tried not to weave his hands through his hair too desperately, not to look like he’d been wanting to mess that perfect silver hair his entire life. The kiss turned fast and heavy, Victor’s hands needy and everywhere, one of them teasing at the hem of his t-shirt and turning Yuuri into nothing but want.

It was overwhelming, almost too much and not enough, and he wanted more of it. All of it.

Just as Yuuri distantly thought he might never come up for air ever again, Victor pulled away and pressed their foreheads together.

“Stay,” he whispered.

Yuuri opened his eyes. “What?”

“Stay with me. Stay the night.”

With his heart pounding almost painfully, Yuuri couldn’t focus on his own thoughts, not with that Victor in front of him – hair rumpled under Yuuri’s hands, chest heaving, lips red from kissing and eyes on him, only him.

Victor swallowed. “I mean, if you… want. We don’t have to… not unless you want to, but –”

“Yes.”

“You… yes?”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

Victor watched him as if he were having a hard time believing Yuuri's answer. As if there were anything else Yuuri might prefer to do.

He leaned in to capture his lips again just as Victor said “I have clothes.”

“Mmm, good for you,” Yuuri replied distractedly. _Less talking_ , he thought petulantly.

But Victor breathed a small laugh. “I mean, I have clothes you can wear to bed, if you want.”

“Oh. Right, yeah, of course. Um, thanks.”

The smile playing on Victor’s lips slowly disappeared. His hands let go of Yuuri’s waist and came up to cup his face. “What do you want, Yuuri?”

One heavy thump of his heart.

_Dive._

“You.”

There had never been any other answer.

Victor held his breath for a moment; his hands shifted, entangling themselves in his hair, and his eyes eyes fluttered shut as he drew Yuuri back into the kiss.

And just like, Yuuri allowed himself to get lost in the tides.

 

* * *

 

An alarm.

(His alarm?)

An alarm ringing, strident and unrelenting, to his left.

Victor opened his eyes just a fraction.

He turned around and patted the air aimlessly until he found his phone on the nightstand, and squinted blearily at Yakov’s picture glaring at him (too bright, too early). He hit the “decline” button and went back to his original position, draping himself all over Yuuri like an octopus. He buried his face in Yuuri's hair, partly to hide from the morning light creeping into the bedroom through the curtains, but mostly simply because it was Yuuri. And when Yuuri himself nuzzled up against his chest, Victor’s brain happily whispered,  _Yakov can wait_.

His eyes flew wide open.

Shit.

His phone rang again, loud, insistent, angry, because that wasn’t the alarm, he hadn’t set it last night, _that was Yakov calling and it was morning already._ What time was it?! He sat up in a flash and answered the call.

“…Yakov?”

“Victor Nikiforov!” Yakov’s voice boomed into his ear and he leaned away from the phone. “We waited for you for twenty minutes! If you think I’ll let Mila be late today because you can’t be bothered to get out of bed, you’d better think again!”

Shit shit shit.

He threw the covers aside in a hurry, getting out of bed with military promptness. The last time Yakov had yelled at him for being late for anything official, he’d been thirteen and terrified of his coach. He was neither now, but he also didn’t want to be late. If he’d learned anything over the years was that the press only needed the flimsiest of excuses to tear anyone to pieces, and the very last thing he needed was to give them a headline: _Five-time World Champion Victor Nikiforov Doesn’t Bother Showing Up For Official Practice Anymore._ It was enough that they wrote lengthy articles about his love life when he’d barely even had one.

 _Past tense_ , he told himself as he glanced at Yuuri grumpily (and not really awake) bury his head under a pillow. He sighed. So much for breakfast in bed with his boyfriend.

Yakov shook him from his reverie. “We’re on our way to the arena already, make sure you get there in time for practice, men are first on the ice!”

“Yes, of course,” he mumbled, clumsily putting on pants while cradling the phone between his ear and shoulder. “Sorry, I overslept.”

That gave Yakov pause. He could almost hear him frowning. “You never oversleep.”

 _That’s because I never slept so well_.

“There’s always a first time, Yakov!” he said cheerfully.

“Hmpf. You’re getting old.”

He gasped. “How dare you!”

“Just be there, practice starts in thirty minutes. There’s a car waiting for you.” Yakov growled and hung up.

Victor dashed into the bathroom while putting on a shirt; after one of the quickest, less thorough teeth-brushings of his life and hastily combing his hair, he went back to the bedroom to find Yuuri sitting up and squinting at the room. “Victor?”

He stopped. Sleepy Yuuri. Hair sticking up in every other direction, pillow marks and wearing one of Victor’s t-shirts - too big for him, too loose, the fact that Victor now knew what was underneath it, that he could still taste it on his lips, all the more tantalizing. Sleepy Yuuri right within his reach, and he couldn’t even stay.

With a small sigh, Victor gave him the glasses he’d left on the table the night before and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Morning, _solnyshko_.”

“Morning.” He yawned. “What’s going on?”

This was so not how he’d imagined this morning would go. “I have to go.”

Victor almost winced at the way Yuuri went still.

“You’re – you’re leaving?”

He rubbed his own neck, sheepishly.  “I… uh, the official practice? I’m late. I mean… I’m going to be late. If I don’t go now.”

“Right. Um… yeah, sure. Of course.” Yuuri nodded and gave him a small, tight smile. Disappointed Yuuri, and Victor felt it like a punch to the gut. Like falling face first on the ice, except this was worse: he knew what to do on the ice to make up for lost points, but what was the boyfriend equivalent of an extra quad?

Yuuri made a move to get out of bed, but Victor sat next to him. “You don’t have to go.”

“No, that’s okay, I… I have things to do as well, I have to… work on a piece, and there’s Phichit, and… Yeah. You know. Things to do.” He threw the covers aside and got up, making intense eye contact with the carpeted floor.

The thought that Victor’s t-shirt + boxers was an _amazing_ look on Yuuri came to him again, for what was probably the fifth time since last night. And those thighs… just looking at them made Victor toy with the idea of not showing up for practice at all.

But it was Yuuri’s awkward silence that pushed him dangerously close to the edge of staying.

“I’ll call you later?”

“If you want to, yeah,” said Yuuri, putting on his pants and trying to smile once again. It came out more lopsided than anything.

Victor walked up to him and rested one hand on his face, hoping Yuuri would lean into the touch. He didn’t. “Of course I want to. Yuuri –”

Ringing.

He closed his eyes. _Goddammit_. He sighed. “Remember the 90’s? When there were no cell phones? Good times.”

Yuuri huffed a laugh, and that knot in Victor’s stomach loosened up a little. Only a little.

“I’ll call you later then, okay?”

He nodded one more time and Victor had to make do with that for now; he had twenty minutes to be at the arena.

“There’s a car downstairs, I can –” he stopped when Yuuri waved his hands a bit frantically.

“No no no no no, that’s okay, I’ll call a cab or whatever, don’t worry. Just go, you have to go.”

Victor would’ve insisted until he won that argument on any other day, but he couldn’t afford to do that now. God only knew how long it took to convince Yuuri of anything. So he kissed him one last time, with that infernal ringing in the background, grabbed the bag he’d left prepared the night before and opened the door.

He stopped there and looked back, and caught Yuuri staring. When their eyes met Yuuri immediately blushed, but still had the gall to make shooing motions with his hand.

With a sigh, Victor left and closed the door.

 

~

 

With practice, medical meetings, drawing the starting order and a couple of interviews, it was past one when Victor was finally ready to leave the arena.

Practice itself had been the least useful he’d had lately. He’d gone through his routine a few times on autopilot, landing double axels that were supposed to be triples, and a single toe loop that should’ve been a quad. Practicing routines that were basically about Yuuri didn’t help his focus, either. Between the memories of the night burning under his skin and the guilt of leaving him today churning in his stomach, he was surprised he’d landed any jumps at all.

Yuuri must’ve left hours ago, of course, but there was a tiny spark of hope in him that he just might find him still in the room when he got back. Maybe he’d decided to stay and wait for Victor. Maybe he hadn’t minded Victor leaving him behind in a hurry.

…and maybe Victor didn’t know Yuuri at all, if he was willing to believe any of that. His face that morning had spoken volumes, even as he’d tried to hide it behind a strained smile.

Back in April, Yuuri had been a riddle wrapped in a mystery, very often squeezed in pants that hugged his ass just right. Now that all pieces had fallen into place, though, Yuuri was pretty much like an open book, and the page he’d read this morning had been clear enough.

In his own defense, that had been nowhere near how he’d envisioned their morning to go. He’d made a thousand plans for the day while falling asleep with Yuuri in his arms, and “finally sleeping with his boyfriend, then dashing and leaving him alone” had not featured in any of them.

As he walked out of the locker room, he got his phone out of his pocket, thinking of what to say in his message; that was when a voice suddenly purred in his ear:

“Going to text your man?”

Victor nearly jumped. “Jesus! Chris!” No one in the skating world walked as silently as Chris; a funny skill for him, distressing for everyone else.

He gave Victor one of his benevolent grins that had stopped fooling him years ago. “So, is he coming?”

Victor beamed. “Yes! He’ll be here tomorrow!”

“Good! Can’t wait to see him again, he’s _very_ easy on the eyes.”

The memory of a semi-naked Yuuri dancing on Chris’s thighs at the banquet flashed before his eyes. “Yeah, I… think you’ve seen enough of him as it is.”

Chris raised an eyebrow. “Ooohhh, look who’s _jealous_!” he noted, singsong. “You’re serious about him, aren’t you?”

Yuri Plisetsky’s voice echoed in his head.

_“You better be serious about him.”_

He smiled a little. “You can say that again.”

“Good for you!” Chris patted him on the back, like a proud father. “If there’s one thing I learned with Matthieu is that being serious about your partner makes sex even better.”

Victor bit back a _yeah, I know_ just as it was about to escape his lips. And then the coin dropped. “I thought the only thing you were learning from Matthieu was choreography. When did that happen?”

“You were too busy chasing your man all the way to Japan to care, _chéri,_ " Chris said with a theatrical sigh. “But it’s all over my Instagram.”

Now that he mentioned it, Victor did have a vague memory of seeing more pictures of Matthieu on Chris’s Instagram than usual, in and out of the rink. He’d had his own pining to see to over the summer, so those pictures had simply slipped through the cracks, but now they made sense.

Chris continued. “I’d tell you all about it over dinner, but I’m sure you’d rather have dinner with someone else,” he finished with a wink.

“Yeah, kinda,” he answered with a grin. “Sorry.”

“That’s okay, if anyone needs to get laid, it’s you.” He ignored Victor’s gasp and changed the subject. “Listen _chéri_ , did something happen to Yakov?”

“What do you mean?”

“He called me ‘Giacometti’ instead of Chris today. He hasn’t done that in years! He seemed really angry, too.”

“Well…” Victor scratched his head. That Yakov was angry was news to no one, Victor had arrived in the nick of time for official practice. But why would he be angry at Chris? “He’s always angry.”

“Yes, but not usually at me.”

Victor shrugged, baffled.

~

**13:00 [Me]:** Yuuri! Practice is done! \\(^ヮ^)/

 **13:01 [Katsuki Yuuri ♥]:** How was it?

 **13:01 [Me]:** It was OK.

 **13:01 [Me]:** I’m sorry for today! (╯︵╰,) 

            **13:02 [Katsuki Yuuri ♥]:** Don’t worry about it

 **13:02 [Me]:** Of course I worry about it!

 **13:02 [Me]:** It was not what I had in mind for today!

             **13:03 [Katsuki Yuuri ♥]:** (^.^)

             **13:04 [Katsuki Yuuri ♥]:** What exactly did you have in mind

 **13:04 [Me]:** You.

             **13:05 [Katsuki Yuuri ♥]:** Better than “more handsome than yakov”

 **13:05 [Me]:** :D

 **13:05 [Me]:** Does that mean I get a second date tonight???

             **13:07 [Katsuki Yuuri ♥]:** What about tomorrow morning

             **13:07 [Katsuki Yuuri ♥]:** What time’s practice

 **13:07 [Me]:** Thinking about tomorrow morning already? 

 **13:07 [Me]:** How forward, Yuuri! (*/▽＼*)

 **13:07 [Me]:** Practice is only at 11!

 **13:08 [Me]:** We have time

 **13:08 [Me]:** We can wake up and have decent breakfast together! 

             **13:09 [Katsuki Yuuri ♥]:** Are you implying we’re gonna wake up together?

             **13:09 [Katsuki Yuuri ♥]:** How forward

 **13:09 [Me]:**!!!!!!!!!

             **13:10 [Katsuki Yuuri ♥]:** XD

             **13:10 [Katsuki Yuuri ♥]:** What time then?

             **13:10 [Katsuki Yuuri ♥]:** Tonight, i mean

 **13:11 [Me]:** I have a couple of interviews today at 15h, conditioning from 16 to 17, and then I’m all yours ♡

             **13:11 [Katsuki Yuuri ♥]:** 19h?

 **13:11 [Me]:** ♡♡♡

 

* * *

 

“Here we are!”

Yuuri opened his arms in an unmistakable, but still self-contained, very Yuuri, “ta-da” gesture. His smile, however, was so bright that Victor found it hard to look at anything else, let alone a café, and he smiled back.

“So this is your favorite,” he said, only glancing at the place and then letting his eyes going back to Yuuri. “Best coffee in Detroit, then?”

“God, no,” said Yuuri, slightly horrified. “It’s passable at best. You’re probably gonna hate it.”

Victor looked confusedly from Yuuri to the coffee shop, and then back at him. “But then…”

“Americans have no idea how to make actual coffee. Or tea, for that matter. They just… can’t,” Yuuri said, looking baffled, as if marveling at Americans’ inability to make decent hot beverages. He shrugged. “But the place itself is good. They have a great space here, and excellent cheesecake!” he finished with a wink, almost killing Victor on the spot.

Once they were inside, though, Victor had to agree: the coffee shop was vast, all in wood and faux bricks, with worn-out looking sofas (that were probably brand new) and long wooden tables and benches. It was modern and well-lit while still feeling cozy somehow.

There were more tables than sofas, which meant that sometimes you had to sit with people you didn’t know, like a school cafeteria; but Yuuri spotted a sofa being vacated and hurried to secure it, half sitting, half throwing himself on it with a triumphant look.

Victor sat next to him, laughter bubbling up despite his best efforts to stop it.

Yuuri looked at him, perplexed. “What?”

“You must be really tired if you need a couch that much! Was last night that exhausting?” he teased.

He got a glare in return, which was severely undermined by the blush that went with it.

(Truth be told, he was the one that had been tired out the most in the end; he might be the athlete between the two of them, but his stamina had never been the best, while Yuuri… Yuuri had been ready for round two in a frighteningly short time. Victor had no idea how he’d managed to skate that morning.)

To his surprise, Yuuri dropped the glare and widened his eyes instead, cocking his head.

“Hmm, maybe? I mean, I’m not used to _that_ kind of exercise, and you’re getting old, so... we should probably take things easier tonight,” he finished, pretending not to hear Victor gasp.

“I’m twenty-seven!” he protested.

“All that?! Wow,” he replied, shaking his head as if in awe of Victor’s age.

Victor narrowed his eyes at him. “Did you get this savagery from Minako? I think you got it from Minako.” He sighed, sinking further on the couch. “Only prima ballerinas are this brutal,” he added, memories of Lilia’s cutting remarks at Yakov replaying vaguely in his head.

(Seeing them together at the rink again had been a surreal experience that nothing could’ve prepared him for. One thing was to get angry texts from Yura about it, another entirely was seeing it with his own eyes; hearing Lilia’s emotionless “Victor Andreyevich” on his first morning back had been nostalgic and terrifying at the same time.)

Yuuri chuckled; Victor watched him unbutton his coat and then check the messages on his phone. Hair still a little frazzled from the wind outside, glasses sliding down his nose – Yuuri unconsciously pushing them back, only for them to slide down again a few seconds later – and he still looked too tempting.

(That call that Victor never stopped hearing, that nereid song that always drew him in.)

Yuuri’s brow furrowed slightly. “Victor?”

Oh.

_Oh._

He’d been staring.

“I, uh, I was just thinking. I know you’re all set here with the couch, but… you do know we haven’t ordered, right?”

He watched Yuuri’s face fall in the realization they would have to abandon the couch. He groaned.

“Right. Yeah, I’ll go buy us something.”

 

~

 

Comfortably settled on the sofa and legs stretched in front of him, Victor was immersed in Christophe’s Instagram, catching up with the love story he’d apparently missed during the summer, when he felt someone lightly kick one of his feet. He looked up: Yuuri, with two of those gigantic American cups in his hands (did one person really need that much coffee?).

“Hey there, Mr. Long Legs All Over the Place.” He gave him one of the cups and plopped down next to him with a contented sigh.

Victor took a careful, tentative sip of his latte; yup, Yuuri was right. It was horrible. He raised his head in offended dignity. “I’ll have you know I have been complimented for my ‘long legs’, Mr. Katsuki. In fact, these legs got me a modeling job for Calvin Klein a few years ago.”

“Yeah, I know, fall collection 2014.”

Silence. He felt Yuuri go still next to him, and looked: Yuuri had blanched. Well, that was new. He usually did the opposite.

“Wow, you… remember those ads, then?”

His knowledge of the campaign was awfully specific, true, but his Calvin Klein ads had been everywhere at the time, particularly in America. It stood to reason that Yuuri had seen them.

Yuuri licked his lips. “Um. I mean. I guess? I don’t know.”

“But you just said–”

“I say a lot of things, really, so uh, yeah, don’t listen to me, I… I’ve never had posters of you, I just confused it with someone else.”

Wait.

Victor’s heart stopped for a few seconds. “Posters?”

Yuuri closed his eyes, and Victor widened his.

“You… had posters of me?”

The sigh that followed was so bleak it could’ve killed entire crops. Yuuri slumped on the couch, his usual perfect posture long forgotten, and threw his head back, looking forlornly at the ceiling.

He looked so dejected Victor almost felt bad for him – ‘almost’ being the key word. He couldn’t. He couldn’t drop the subject now, he had to know. This was getting too close to wildest dreams territory, and it was all he could do not to bounce on that couch.

He scooched a little closer, wrapping an arm around his boyfriend. “Yuuriiii…” he insisted, in his best pleading voice.

Another long suffering sigh.

“…I have some posters of you stashed in a drawer in Hasetsu. Andsomeinmyapartment.”

“You do?!” Victor beamed, despite Yuuri clearly willing himself to disappear, eyes still glued to the ceiling. He took a deep breath.

“ _Imfn._ ”

“You – what?”

Yuuri covered his face. “I’m a fan. I’ve always been. Since Junior Worlds in Sofia and the _Lilac Fairy_ program and your first record.”

Victor stared. Then opened his mouth, but Yuuri interrupted, voice still coming out muffled from behind his hands. “Your first _world_ record, because you already had the junior record for highest overall score in the Russian Nationals, which… you broke again the next year.”

Wow. Not a lot of people remembered that. Yuuri… really was a fan.

His fan.

Had been for a _decade_.

A conversation by the rink in the Ice Castle echoed from some corner of his mind: _“Do you have a favorite skater?”_

He gasped and leaned back. “Yuuuuuri! You told me Jaime Estévez was your favorite skater!”

It had stung back then. Jaime Estévez, the one skater Victor had spent the entire first half of his senior career trying to knock off the top of the podium; the quad Salchow Jaime could land and he couldn’t had tormented him for a couple of seasons – and even when he’d finally managed to land it, he still hadn’t been satisfied. It had been sheer spite that had led Victor to be the first skater to ever land a quad Lutz in an international competition (not that he was allowed to say that in interviews.).

Yuuri uncovered his face, looking horrified. “I had to say something! He was the only one I could think of.”

“You could’ve at least said someone who’s not retired,” said Victor with a chuckle, taking another sip of his coffee.

“Yeah, I know, but… I don’t know, I worked with him a couple of times, we went out once, it made sense.”

He almost spat out the coffee. “You… what? You went out with him?!”

Yuuri seemed surprised. “Yeah. Um, we had dinner once.”

Victor blinked stupidly at him, his head spinning. Reality in Detroit was like an entirely different dimension. A very confusing one.

“You went on a date with Jaime,” he said, more to himself than to Yuuri, to see what happened if those words were spoken out loud.

Nope, they still sounded incomprehensible somehow.

And they also made Yuuri flush a little. “It was not a date, he just… wanted to thank me for the music I composed for him.”

Wasn’t that an implausible story. Surely Jaime could’ve come up with a better one?

(He was one to talk. Flying halfway across the globe, saying “I came here to explain _exactly_ what kind of music I want” was probably not much smarter either. Was that the Katsuki Yuuri Effect?)

He shook his head. It didn’t matter anyway (although it was a shame he’d retired, now he couldn’t see Victor proudly parading the love bite Yuuri had left on his neck).

“Okay, never mind that. So!” he continued, watching Yuuri flinch, “you’re my fan?”

“…kinda,” he mumbled.

“Kinda?”

Yuuri sighed. “A lot. May have learned how to skate because of you.”

Okay. He ran his free hand through his hair. _Okay_. Yuuri would not thank him if he clutched his chest and awwwwed at him. He could refrain from doing that, for Yuuri.

The things he did for love.

“…and I had that Calvin Klein ad on my wall for months,” he completed.

That was more than he could take: Victor burst into laughter. Yuuri hid his face in his hands again with another groan, and Victor patted him on the back.

“Well, if it’s any consolation, I think that was a really good photoshoot. I mean, I’m biased, but…”

“No, you’re right, that was a great photoshoot,” Yuuri mumbled miserably.

Victor was this close to asking him which ad he had on his wall, but resisted. Yuuri would probably explode if he had to answer that.

(He really, really hoped he’d chosen the one where Victor was shirtless, with his hair carefully messy and jeans slightly open.)

“Yuuri, why didn’t you tell me?” Victor asked softly.

“I didn’t… I didn’t want you to think I was pathetic. I was barely holding it together during our first Skype interview.”

Right, Victor remembered that. He’d simply thought Yuuri was embarrassed to talk to Victor so many months after the banquet. But no one could be embarrassed by something they didn’t remember.

_“If I win this dance-off, you’ll skate for me, right?”_

That explained Drunk Yuuri. And the way he’d fled from him when Sara had tried to introduce them. It explained a myriad of small moments scattered throughout the summer.

…Pining Victor would’ve loved to know that particularly enlightening detail.

“Yuuri, why are you under the impression I think my fans are pathetic?”

“What? No!” He finally lifted his head. “That’s not what I meant, I just… I don’t know,” he finished weakly.

“Do you think I’m pathetic, then?”

Their eyes met again. “You?”

“I’m your fan, aren’t I?”

“Victor, it’s not…” Yuuri shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but it’s not the same.”

Damn right it was not the same. Yuuri’s music had made him look forward to a new season for the first time in years; had made him remember how to feel everything he laid out on the ice. What had he given Yuuri in return?

He gently took his hand and laced their fingers together. “Look, I know one year is not the same as a decade, but I still think it counts. And for what is worth,” he continued, placing a kiss on Yuuri’s hand and letting his eyes flutter shut for one brief moment, “I’m the lucky one to be here with you.”

He watched Yuuri’s eyes widen in surprise, and pink quickly dust his nose. Who in their right mind would look at Yuuri, talk to him and hear him speak, laugh, play, sing – watch him be – and think he was pathetic?

With his lips still lingering on Yuuri’s hand, he added, “Now tell me more about that Calvin Klein ad on your wall.”

Yuuri pulled his hand away. “I’m never gonna hear the end of that, am I?”

“Nope!” Victor readily agreed with a smile. Yuuri fought one of his own and took a look at the line at the counter.

“Okay, I really need some cheesecake now. Do you want anything?”

“Thanks, but I still have my unnecessarily large cup full of watered down coffee. I’m good!”

Yuuri gave a small laugh and stood up; he winced a little.

Victor frowned. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, it’s… just my knee. Not in top shape after last night.”

“Why, what did you – oh.”

Last night. It would certainly go down in Victor’s memory as one of the best nights of his life, but in hindsight, it was not one Yuuri’s bad knee would thank him for.

He was a moron. Why hadn’t he thought of that?

“Don’t worry about it,” said Yuuri, obviously amused by the realization dawning on Victor. He leaned in and pressed a small kiss on his cheek, then got hold of his collar and pulled him closer.

“It was worth it,” he whispered in his ear.

Victor’s breath hitched, but his boyfriend was already walking away, leaving Victor inconveniently turned on in the middle of a café. He crossed his legs. Good thing he was sitting down.

At this rate he wouldn’t need the alarm function tomorrow. Katsuki Yuuri would kill him long before morning.

 

* * *

 

Yuuri’s bed was maybe half of the one Victor had at the hotel, which meant they had no option but to lay as close together as possible after they were finished. Victor opened his arms, in an invitation Yuuri was more than happy to accept.

They lay together in comfortable silence, legs tangled and arms around each other, until an unpleasant memory tugged at Yuuri and he jolted upright.

“Did you set an alarm?”

Victor let out a slight laugh; murmuring “good thinking”, he grabbed his phone from the nightstand and quickly corrected his mistake.

Another alarm debacle avoided, Yuuri lay his head on Victor’s shoulder one more time, tracing lazy patterns across the freckles on his chest, while Victor’s gentle fingers carded through his hair. Then, a sudden realization hit him. His hand stopped and he looked up at Victor’s face.

“They airbrushed your freckles away.”

Victor looked confused. “What?”

“For the Calvin Klein ad,” he explained. Shirtless, Semi-Open Pants Victor had been up on his wall for months (he still had it in a drawer in that very same bedroom, something Victor didn't need to know). He’d looked at it for way too long way too many times, and had never seen one single freckle in that flawless skin of his.

Now, though, he had the real thing with him, and there was an entire constellation under his fingers.

“Oh. Yeah,” Victor smiled faintly, “they did. They said it would look better without them.”

It would look be– what kind of nonsense was that?!

Yuuri propped himself up on one elbow. “That’s ridiculous,” he said fiercely. “They’re adorable.”

Victor looked back at him with huge eyes, and – there it was.

His favorite Victor Smile. The one that kind of crinkled the corners of his eyes and showed warmth that no ad or poster had ever been able to capture.

The one that was just Yuuri’s.

“Come here,” he whispered, beckoning him. Once Yuuri was in his arms again, he pressed a kiss to his hair, along with a quiet “you’re the adorable one, do you know that?”.

Yuuri buried his face into the crook of Victor’s neck, feeling him chuckle and continue to intertwine soft kisses with “my Yuuri” and “my adorable Yuuri.”

He let those words slowly lull him into sleep, while one last thought crossed his mind.

_Be my Victor, then._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys. Thank you so much for your patience, and I'm SO sorry about this ridiculous delay. But between trying to get this chapter the way I wanted it to be AND real life... *sighs* Work really had me cornered for some time, and this chapter also went through a whole bunch of rewrites.  
> BUT here it is, and on the week of YOI's episode 2 anniversary! \o/
> 
> A whole bunch of thanks to my betas and all the friends who helped me with this!
> 
> As for you all, I promise to love and cherish each and every kudo and comment till death do us part! ;)
> 
> And as always, feel free to come find me on [tumblr](http://thehobbem.tumblr.com/)!


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